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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 


[See  page  282 

AS   SHE     NEARED    HER   HOME     THE    SUN's    RAYS    WERE    DYING    OUT   OF 
THE   LANDSCAPE   AND   THE   DUSK   WAS   GATHERING 


The 
Hills  of  Refuge 

By  WILL  N.  HARBEN 


AUTHOR  OF 

"The  Triumph," 

"The  Desired  Woman," 

"Second  Choice,"  Etc. 


With  Frontispiece 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


THE  HILLS  OF  REFUGE 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PART    I 


THE   HILLS   OF  REFUGE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  house,  a  three-story  red-brick  residence, 
was  on  Walnut  Street,  near  Beacon.  Its  nar 
row  front  faced  the  state  Capitol  with  its  gold- 
sheeted  dome;  from  its  stoop  one  could  look  down 
on  the  Common  and,  from  the  corner  of  the  street, 
see  the  Public  Gardens.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning 
and  the  Browne  family  were  at  breakfast  in  the 
dining-room  in  the  rear  of  the  first  floor,  just  back  of 
the  drawing-room.  The  two  rooms  were  separated 
by  folding-doors  painted  white,  as  was  the  wain 
scoting  of  the  dining-room.  There  was  a  wide  bay 
window  at  the  end,  the  sashes  of  which  were  up,  and 
the  spring  air  and  sunshine  came  in,  feeding  the 
plants  which  stood  in  pots  on  the  sill. 

William  Browne,  the  head  of  the  family,  a  banker 
of  middle  age,  slender,  sallow  of  complexion,  par 
tially  bald,  and  of  a  nervous  temperament,  his 
mustache  and  hair  touched  with  gray,  sat  reading 
the  Transcript  of  the  evening  before. 

Opposite  to  him  sat  his  wife,  Celeste,  a  delicate 
woman  somewhat  under  thirty  years  of  age.  She 
had  once  been  beautiful,  and  might  still  be  considered 

3 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

so,  for  her  face  was  a  rare  one.  Her  eyes  were  deeply 
blue,  and  now  ringed  with  dark  circles  which  added 
to  the  beauty  of  her  olive  skin.  The  hand  filling 
her  husband's  coffee-cup  was  thin,  tapering,  and 
almost  as  small  as  a  child's.  Her  lips  had  a  drawn, 
sensitive  expression  when  she  spoke  as  he  lowered  his 
paper  to  take  the  coffee  she  was  holding  out  to  him, 

"You  have  not  told  me  how  your  business  is," 
she  said. 

' '  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?"  His  irritation  was 
obvious,  though  he  was  trying  to  hide  it,  as  he 
dropped  his  paper  at  his  side  and  all  but  glared  at 
her  over  his  cup. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  know  such  things,"  she 
answered.  "Besides  I  worry  considerably  when — 
when  I  think  you  are  upset  over  financial  matters." 

"Upset?"  He  stared,  it  seemed  almost  fearfully, 
at  her,  and  then  began  to  eat  the  brown  bread  and 
fish-cakes  on  his  plate.  "Why  do  you  think  that  I 
am  upset?" 

"I  can  always  tell,"  she  faltered.  "When  you 
are  disturbed  over  business  you  don't  notice  Ruth 
when  you  come  in.  You  almost  pushed  her  from 
your  lap  last  night  when  she  went  to  you  in  the 
library.  It  hurt  the  little  thing's  feelings.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"A  position  like  mine  is  full  of  responsibility," 
he  said,  doggedly.  "Hundreds  of  things  go  wrong. 
Mistakes  are  made  sometimes.  We  are  handling 
other  people's  money.  The  directors  are  harsh, 
puritanical  men,  and  they  are  very  hard  to  please. 
They  want  me  to  do  it  all,  and  they  think  I  am  in 
fallible,  or  ought  to  be." 

4 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

"You  didn't  sleep  well  last  night,"  Celeste  con 
tinued,  still  timidly.  "I  heard  you  walking  to  and 
fro.  I  smelled  your  cigars.  I  couldn't  sleep,  for 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  unusually  disturbed. 
You  may  not  remember  it,  but  you  ate  scarcely  any 
thing  at  supper,  and,  although  I  asked  you  several 
questions,  you  did  not  hear  me." 

He  bolted  the  mouthful  of  bread  he  had  broken 
off.  His  eyes  flashed  desperately.  "Oh,  I  can't 
go  into  all  the  details  of  our  ups  and  downs!"  he 
blurted  out,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  impa 
tience.  ' '  When  I  leave  the  bank  I  try  to  shut  them 
in  behind  me.  If  I  go  over  them  with  you  it  is 
like  living  through  them  again." 

"Then — then  it  is  not  your  brother  this  time," 
Celeste  ventured.  ' '  I  thought  perhaps  the  directors 
had  spoken  of  his  conduct  again." 

' '  Oh  no.  On  my  account  they  allow  him  to  go  and 
come  as  he  likes.  When  he  is  not  drinking  he  does 
splendid  work — as  much,  often,  as  two  men.  The 
directors  know  he  is  worth  his  pay  even  as  it  is. 
Sometimes  he  gets  behind  with  his  work,  but  soon 
catches  up  again.  In  fact,  they  all  seem  to  like 
him.  They  think  he  can't  help  it.  It  is  hereditary, 
you  know.  Both  of  his  grandfathers  were  like  that . ' ' 

"You  knew  that  he  was  drinking  yesterday,  did 
you?"  Celeste  inquired,  with  concern  in  her  voice, 
and  glance. 

"Oh  yes.  He  wasn't  at  his  desk  at  all.  I  heard 
him  come  in  and  go  to  his  room  about  three  this 
morning.  I  knew  by  his  clatter  on  the  stairs  that, 
it  was  all  he  could  do  to  get  along.  I  think  he  came 
home  in  a  cab;  I  heard  wheels." 

5 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Yes,  he  came  in  a  cab,"  Celeste  said.  "Some 
friend  brought  him.  I  was  awake.  I  heard  them 
saying  good  night  to  each  other.  So  it  was  not 
that  that  worried  you?" 

William  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  have  given 
him  up,"  he  said.  "I  almost  envy  him,  though — 
he  has  so  little  to  worry  about." 

"How  can  you  say  such  things?"  his  wife  de 
manded.  "I  shall  never  give  him  up.  He  has  such 
a  great  heart.  He  is  absolutely  unselfish.  He  has 
given  away  a  great  deal  of  money  to  people  who 
needed  it.  You  know  that  he  helped  Michael  send 
funds  to  his  mother  in  New  York  last  month. 
Michael  worships  him — actually  worships  him." 

Browne  took  up  his  paper  again.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  dismissed  his  younger  brother  from  his 
mind.  At  this  moment  the  servant  just  mentioned, 
Michael  Gilbreth,  came  to  remove  the  plates.  He 
was  a  stout,  red-faced  Irishman  of  middle  age  and 
wore  the  conventional,  though  threadbare,  jacket  of 
a  family  butler. 

"Have  you  inquired  if  Mr.  Charles  wants  any 
breakfast?"  Mrs.  Browne  asked  him,  softly,  as  he 
bent  beside  her  for  the  coffee-urn. 

"Yes,  m'm,"  he  said.  "I  was  up  just  this  minute. 
He  wants  coffee  and  eggs  and  toast.  He  said  to  say 
that  he  would  not  be  down  to  breakfast." 

"Is  he  sober?  Is  he  at  himself?"  the  banker 
asked,  in  a  surly  tone,  from  behind  his  paper. 

For  a  bare  instant  the  servant  hesitated.  His 
entire  bent  body  seemed  to  resent  the  question. 
"Yes,  sir,  he  is  all  right;  a  little  sleepy,  I  think,  but 
that  is  all.  He'll  be  around  later.  He  is  a  fine 

6 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

young  man,  sir;  he  has  a  big  heart  in  'im,  sir.  He 
is  a  friend  to  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich." 

"A  very  poor  one  to  himself,  and  us,"  Browne 
retorted,  irritably.  "But  it  can't  be  helped.  He  is 
done  for.  He  will  keep  on  till  he  is  in  the  gutter  or  a 
madhouse." 

"Take  the  coffee  and  warm  it  again,  Michael," 
Celeste  said,  a  subtle  stare  of  resentment  in  her 
eyes.  "He  was  to  go  to  church  with  Ruth  and  me, 
but  say  to  him,  please,  that  we  are  not  going  this 
morning." 

"Very  well,  madam,  I'll  tell  him,  though  he  will 
be  ready  to  go,  I'm  sure.  He  always  keeps  his 
engagements.  He  intended  to  go,  I  know,  for  he 
had  me  get  out  his  morning  suit  and  brush  it." 

"Tell  him  I  have  other  things  to  do  and  won't 
have  time  to  get  ready  this  morning,"  Celeste  said, 
firmly.  "Remember  to  say  that,  Michael." 

The  butler  had  just  left  when  a  child's  voice,  a 
sweet,  musical  voice,  came  from  the  first  landing 
of  the  stairs  in  the  hall. 

' '  Mother,  please  let  me  come  as  I  am.  I  have  my 
bathrobe  on,  and  my  slippers.  I  have  bathed  my 
face  and  hands  and  brushed  my  hair." 

"Well,  come  on,  darling — this  time!" 

"When  will  you  stop  that,  I  wonder?"  The 
banker  frowned  as  he  spoke.  "What  will  she  grow 
up  like  ?  What  sort  of  manners  will  she  have  ?  You 
are  her  worst  enemy.  A  habit  like  that  ought  not 
to  fix  itself  on  her,  but  it  will,  and  it  will  foster 
others  just  as  bad." 

"Leave  her  training  to  me,"  Celeste  said,  crisply. 
"You  don't  see  her  once  a  week.  She  is  getting  to 
2  7 


THE   HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

be  afraid  of  you.  You  are  upset  now  by  some  busi 
ness  or  other,  and  it  is  making  you  as  surly  as  a  bear." 

"Do  you  think  so — do  you  really  think  that?" 
He  laid  the  paper  down  and  gave  her  a  steady, 
almost  anxious  look.  "I  don't  want  to  get  that 
way.  I  know  that  hard,  mental  work  and  worries 
do  have  a  tendency  to  spoil  men's  moods." 

"Oh,  it  is  all  right,"  Celeste  said,  her  eyes  on  the 
doorway  through  which  her  daughter,  a  golden- 
haired,  brown-eyed  child  of  five  years,  was  approach 
ing.  She  was  very  graceful,  in  the  long  pink  robe — 
very  dainty  and  pretty.  She  had  her  mother's 
slender  hands  and  feet,  the  same  sensitive  lips  and 
thoughtful  brow.  She  ran  into  her  mother's  arms, 
was  fondly,  almost  passionately  embraced,  and  then 
she  went  to  her  father,  timidly,  half  shrinkingly 
kissed  his  lowered  cheek,  and  then  pushed  a  chair 
close  to  her  mother's  side. 

"Shall  I  have  coffee  this  morning?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  but  not  strong,  dear."  Celeste's  lips 
formed  the  words  as  they  played  over  the  brow  of 
the  child.  "I  must  put  a  lot  of  milk  in  it." 

Browne  bent  forward  tentatively.  It  was  as  if 
the  sight  of  his  child  had  inspired  him  with  a  softer 
mood,  as  if  her  sunlight  had  vanquished  some  of  the 
clouds  about  him.  He  smiled  for  the  first  time 
that  morning. 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  have  dressed  before 
you  came  down?"  he  gently  chided  the  child,  reach 
ing  out  and  putting  his  hand  on  her  head  caress 
ingly.  "Naughty,  careless  little  girls  act  as  you  are 
doing." 

' '  I  didn't  have  time, ' '  the  child  said,  leaning  against 

8 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

her  mother's  shoulder  and  causing  his  hand  to  fall 
from  her  head.  "If  I  had  dressed,  both  of  you 
would  have  been  gone  from  the  table  before  I  got 
ready,  and  I  don't  like  to  eat  alone;  besides,  Uncle 
Charles  was  talking  to  me." 

"Talking  to  you?  Where?"  Celeste  asked,  sur 
prised. 

"In  my  room.  What  is  the  matter  with  him, 
mother?" 

"Matter?  Why  do  you  ask  that?"  Celeste  in 
quired,  her  face  grave,  her  voice  sinking  low. 

"Because,  mother,  he  acts  so  strangely.  He  came 
in  while  I  was  asleep.  I  don't  know  how  long  he 
was  there.  When  I  waked  up  he  was  seated  on  the 
foot  of  my  bed.  He  didn't  see  me  looking  at  him, 
for  he  had  his  hands  over  his  face,  pushing  his 
fingers  into  his  eyes,  this  way."  The  little  girl  put 
her  hands  to  her  face,  the  wide  sleeves  of  her  robe 
falling  down  to  her  shoulders  and  baring  her  beauti 
ful  dimpled  arms.  "He  was  talking  to  himself  in 
the  strangest  way,  almost  ready  to  cry.  'I'd  like  to 
be  a  child!'  I  heard  him  say  that,  mother — I'm 
sure  I  heard  him  say  that.  I  closed  my  eyes,  for 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Then  I  think  • —  I  think 
he  must  have  been  praying  or  something.  He  bent 
down  a  minute,  and  then  sat  up.  I  could  feel  him 
moving  and  I  heard  him  groaning.  Presently  he  was 
still  and  I  peeped  at  him.  He  was  looking  at  me 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  mother — great  big  tears. 
They  came  on  his  cheeks  and  fell  down  on  his  hands. 
He  saw  that  I  was  awake,  and  put  his  hand  on  my 
head  and  brushed  back  my  hair.  Oh,  I  was  so  sorry 
for  him,  and  I  don't  know  why!  He  kissed  me.  He 

Q 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

took  me  in  his  lap  and  hugged  me,  holding  my  face 
to  his.  Then  he  put  me  back,  and  I  heard  him  say: 
'I  have  no  right  to  touch  her.  She  is  pure,  and  I 
am' — he  said  some  word  that  I  do  not  know.  He 
got  my  robe  and  slippers  and  helped  me  put  them 
on,  awfully  sweet  and  nice,  mother.  Then  I  told 
him  I  was  going  down  to  breakfast.  I  offered  to 
kiss  him,  and  at  first  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  stood 
shaking  his  head  and  looking  so  sad  and  strange. 
'You  ought  not  to  kiss  me,  if  you  are  my  little  niece,' 
he  said.  'I  am  not  a  good  uncle,  Ruth.  You  will 
be  ashamed  to  own  me  when  you  are  a  young  lady 
and  go  to  balls  and  parties.  People  will  not  mention 
me  to  you.  But  I  will  go  away  and  never  come  back. 
Mother,  is  he  going  off?  I  hugged  him  and  begged 
him  not  to  leave,  and  he  began  to  cry  again.  He  was 
trying  not  to,  and  he  shook  all  over.  Presently  he 
said  he  might  not  go  away  if  I  wanted  him  to  stay. 
Oh,  mother,  what  is  the  matter  with  him?  What  is 
the  matter  with  you?  Why,  you  are  crying,  too! 
Don't,  mother,  don't!" 

Celeste,  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  had  turned 
her  face  aside. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  do  this?"  Browne  asked,  im 
patiently.  "Don't  you  see  how  emotional  the  child 
is?  All  this  can't  be  good  for  her.  Charles  ought 
to  be  kicked,  the  rascal!  Why  doesn't  he  keep  his 
remorse  to  himself?  He  is  like  this  after  every  spree, 
and  he  will  do  it  all  over  again." 

Celeste,  as  if  regretting  her  show  of  emotion, 
wiped  her  eyes,  straightened  up,  and  forced  a  smile. 
"You  must  eat  an  egg  this  morning,  darling,"  she 
said  to  her  daughter.  "  Don't  worry  about  your 

10 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

uncle.  He  is  not  very  well,  but  he  will  be  all  right 
soon." 

"And  he  won't  go  away?"  Ruth  asked,  anxiously. 

"No,  he  won't  go  away,  dear,"  Celeste  said. 
"We'll  keep  him.  You  must  love  him  and  be  kind 
to  him." 


CHAPTER  II 

WITH  a  tray  holding  the  breakfast  of  the  other 
member  of  the  family,  Michael  ascended  the 
stairs,  the  heavy  carpet  muffling  his  steps.  In  a 
room  at  the  end  of  the  house,  on  the  second  floor, 
he  found  the  younger  brother  of  his  master  nervously 
walking  to  and  fro  across  the  room.  He  was  tall, 
strongly  built,  and  had  a  well-shaped  head.  He 
was  clean-shaven,  blue-eyed,  and  had  a  fine  shock 
of  brown  hair  through  which  he  was-  constantly 
pushing  his  splaying  fingers. 

"Come  in,  come  in!  Thank  you,  Mike!"  he  said, 
drawing  his  long  gray  robe  about  him  and  retying 
the  silken  cord  at  the  waist.  "I  can't  eat  a  bite, 
but  I  want  the  coffee.  Wait;  I'll  clear  the  table." 

He  made  an  effort  to  move  some  books  from  the 
small  table,  but  he  fumbled  them  and  they  slid  from 
his  trembling  hands  to  the  floor,  where  he  let  them 
lie  in  a  heap.  The  servant  heard  him  sigh  dejectedly 
and  then  he  said : 

"I'm  all  in,  Mike;  I'm  done  for." 

"Oh  no,  sir!"  Michael  said,  with  emotion,  as  he 
put  the  tray  on  the  table  and  proceeded  to  gather 
up  the  books.  "You  feel  bad,  I  know,  sir,  but  it 
will  wear  off  by  to-morrow." 

A  low  groan  escaped  the  young  man's  lips.    "No, 

12 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

/ 

it  is  too  late  now,  Mike.  Give  me  a  cup<  of  coffee, 
please — strong  and  hot.  Oh,  Mike,  you  can't  im 
agine  how  I  feel.  Mike,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  rope. 
I  am  the  greatest  failure  in  Boston.  My  old  college 
friends  shun  me.  Ladies  I  used  to  know  drop  their 
eyes  when  I  pass,  as  if  they  are  afraid  of  me.  The 
other  day  I  insulted  one  by  staring  in  her  face,  not 
conscious  of  what  I  was  doing.  Her  brother  resented 
it  yesterday  in  a  cafe  before  several  people.  He 
struck  me —  I  struck  him.  We  went  to  the  police 
court.  I  was  fined,  and  scolded  like  a  dirty  street 
loafer." 

"Here  is  your  coffee,  sir,"  Michael  said,  sympa 
thetically.  "Drink  it  right  down,  sir.  You  are 
nervous  again." 

Charles  obeyed,  as  a  child  might.  "Thank  you. 
You  are  too  good  to  me,  Mike,"  he  said,  returning 
the  empty  cup  and  beginning  to  stride  back  and 
forth  again.  The  butler  was  about  to  leave,  but  he 
stopped  him.  "Don't  go  yet,"  he  pleaded.  "Oh, 
I  must  talk  to  somebody — •  I  must  get  it  out.  It  is 
killing  me.  I've  been  awake  here  since  three  o'clock. 
I  can't  sleep.  Yesterday  they  turned  me  out  of  my 
club.  I'm  no  longer  a  member.  I  am  the  only  man 
who  has  ever  been  expelled.  I've  been  a  gambler, 
Mike.  I've  been  everything  except  dishonest.  I'm 
rotten.  I  don't  blame  the  club.  I  deserved  it  long 
ago.  I  ought  to  have  had  the  common  decency  to 
send  in  my  resignation." 

"You  need  money,  I'm  sure,"  Michael  broke  in, 
"and  I  owe  you  five  hundred  dollars.  I've  been 
hoping — " 

"Don't  mention  that,"  Charles  broke  in.  "I'm 

13 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

• 

glad  I  Itjnt  it  to  you.  If  I'd  had  it  it  would  have 
been  thrown  away,  and,  as  it  was,  it  helped  your 
mother,  you  say.  No,  no,  never  bring  it  up  again. 
Let  it  go." 

"I'll  never  let  it  go,"  the  servant  gulped.  "I'll 
pay  that  debt  if  I  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to 
do  it.  Everybody  else  refused  to  let  me  have  it; 
even  your  brother  didn't  have  it  to  spare.  My  oldest 
and  best  friends  turned  me  down." 

"Cut  it  out!  cut  it  out!"  Charles  frowned.  "Give 
me  another  cup  of  coffee.  Yes,  I  thought  it  all  out 
here  this  morning,  Mike.  I  am  imposing  on  Will 
iam.  They  keep  me  at  the  bank  only  on  his  ac 
count.  He  used  to  protest  against  the  way  I  am  act 
ing,  but  he  has  given  me  up — actually  given  me  up." 

"I've  heard  him  say  you  did  a  lot  of  work,"  ob 
jected  the  servant.  "Don't  underrate  yourself.  It 
isn't  right." 

"Oh  yes!  I  work  when  I  am  at  it,"  Charles 
admitted.  "Remorse  is  a  great  force  at  times,  but 
it  is  the  other  thing,  Mike.  The  damnable  habit 
gets  hold  of  me.  For  hours,  days,  and  weeks  I  fight 
against  it.  I've  even  prayed  for  release,  but  to  no 
purpose.  Last  night  I  was  consorting  with  the  lowest 
of  the  low.  I  had  the  money  and  they  had  the  rags, 
the  dirt,  and  the  thirst.  A  friend  found  me  and 
brought  me  home,  or  God  only  knows  where  I  would 
have  been  by  this  time.  They  say  it  is  in  my  blood; 
two  grandfathers  fell  under  it — one  killed  himself. 
Yes,  I've  decided — at  last  I've  decided." 

"Decided  what,  sir?"  anxiously  questioned  Mi 
chael,  as  he  took  the  empty  cup  and  placed  it  on 
the  tray. 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I've  decided  to  be  man  enough  to  leave  Boston 
forever.  I  shall  not  inflict  myself  longer  on  William 
and  his  wife  and  that  angel  child.  Listen  to  me, 
Mike.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  conscience,  and 
at  times  it  burns  in  a  man  like  the  fires  of  hell  itself. 
Do  you  know — you  must  know  it,  though — I  prac 
tically  killed  my  mother?  She  used  to  spend  night 
after  night  awake  on  my  account.  Worry  over  me 
actually  broke  her  down.  She  was  always  awake 
when  I  was  out  like  I  was  last  night.  Mike,  I  was 
drunk  the  day  she  was  buried — too  drunk  to  go  to 
the  service.  Yes,  I  am  going  to  leave  Boston  before 
I  am  discharged  from  the  bank,  and  I  shall  go  away 
never  to  return.  I  want  to — to  blot  my  name  from 
the  memories  of  all  living  men.  I  am  a  drunkard 
and  I  may  as  well  live  like  one.  I  am  a  disgrace  to 
every  one  of  my  family.  Uncle  James,  when  he 
was  here  last,  told  me  that  he  had  cut  me  out  of 
his  will  and  was  praying  for  my  death.  Great  God ! 
I  was  drinking  at  the  time  and  I  told  him  I  didn't 
want  his  money,  and  I  don't,  Mike,  for  I  am  un 
worthy  of  it.  He  is  a  harsh  old  Puritan,  but  he  is 
nearer  right  than  I  am  or  ever  can  be.  Yes,  don't 
be  surprised  if  you  miss  me  some  day.  This  cannot 
go  on." 

"Surely — surely  you  can't  be  in  earnest,  sir — " 

"Oh  yes,  I  am.  Mike,  do  you  believe  in  dreams — 
in  visions,  or  anything  of  that  sort?" 

"I  think  I  do,  sir — to  some  extent,  at  least.  Have 
I  never  told  you?  Well,  when  I  was  trying  to  get 
the  money  for  my  mother,  and  was  so  miserable 
about  it,  I  went  to  bed  one  night  and  prayed  to  the 
Lord  to  help  me,  and  do  you  know,  sir,  I  dreamed 

15 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

that  a  young  girl  all  dressed  in  pure  white,  and  shin 
ing  all  over  with  light,  came  and  handed  me  the 
money.  And  it  seemed  to  come  true,  for  you  gave 
me  the  money  at  breakfast  the  very  next  morning. 
Do  you  have  dreams,  sir?" 

"Always,  always,  Mike.  I  am  always  dreaming 
that  I  am  alone  among  strangers,  away  from  kindred 
and  friends,  but  always  happy  and  care-free.  I 
can't  describe  the  feeling;  it  is  wonderful!  I  know 
what  I  want  to  say,  but  I  can't  express  it.  Say, 
Mike,  William  is  a  good  old  chap.  You  may  not 
believe  it,  but  I  love  him.  He  has  other  troubles 
besides  me.  I  don't  know  what  they  are — financial, 
I  think.  He  never  speaks  to  me  of  his  ventures. 
In  fact,  I  think  he  tries  to  keep  me  from  knowing 
about  them.  I  find  him  at  the  bank  late  in  the  night, 
sometimes.  Yes,  he  is  all  right,  Mike.  I  would 
have  been  kicked  out  of  my  job  long  ago  but  for 
him.  Yes,  Mike,  I'll  turn  up  missing  one  of  these 
days.  I ' ve  had  enough. ' ' 

"You'll  feel  differently  by  to-morrow,  sir,"  the 
servant  said,  gently.  "You  are  nervous  and  upset 
now,  as  you  always  are  after — " 

"After  making  a  hog  of  myself,"  Charles  said. 
"No,  I'll  not  feel  better,  Mike.  It  is  my  very  soul 
that  is  disgusted.  I  know  that  I'll  never  change, 
and  I  shall  not  inflict  myself  on  my  family  any 
longer.  Don't  speak  of  this,  Mike — it  is  just  be 
tween  you  and  me.  Oh,  they  will  be  glad  that  I've 
left!  Ruth  will  miss  me  for  a  little  while,  maybe, 
for  the  child  seems  to  love  me,  but  children  scon 
forget,  and  I  don't  want  her  to  grow  up  and  know 
me  as  I  really  am.  If  I  stay  she  will  hear  about 

16 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

me  and  blush  with  shame.  Think  of  what  a  crime 
that  would  be,  Mike — killing  the  ideals  of  a  sweet, 
innocent  child.  Yes,  I'm  going,  old  man.  It  will 
be  best  all  around.  I'll  be  dead  to  everybody  that 
has  ever  known  me.  I've  lacked  manhood  up  till 
now,  Mike,  but  I'll  use  all  I  have  left  in  trying  to 
make  restitution.  Obliteration — annihilation!  that 
is  the  idea,  and  somehow  a  soothing  one." 

The  kind-hearted  servant  was  deeply  moved  and 
he  turned  his  face  toward  the  open  window,  through 
which  the  cries  of  the  newsboys  came  from  the 
streets  below. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you  before  I  go  down?" 
he  asked. 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  was  the  answer.  "I  shall 
stay  here  all  day,  Mike.  I  don't  want  to  show  my 
self  in  town.  The  news  of  my  expulsion  from  the 
club  will  be  known  everywhere.  I  don't  want  to 
look  in  the  faces  of  my  old  friends.  Some  of  them 
have  tried  to  save  me.  This  will  be  the  last  straw. 
They  will  give  me  up  now — yes,  they  will  be  bound 
to." 

"You  will  be  all  right  by  to-morrow,  sir,"  Michael 
said,  huskily.  "Lie  down  and  sleep.  You  need  it. 
You  are  shaking  all  over." 

When  the  servant  had  left  the  room,  closing  the 
door  behind  him,  Charles  began  to  walk  to  and  fro 
again.  Presently  he  paused  before  the  old  mahogany 
bureau  and  stood  hesitating  for  a  moment.  "I 
must — I  must,"  he  said.  And  opening  a  drawer,  he 
took  out  a  flask  of  whisky  and,  filling  a  glass,  he 
drank.  Then  holding  the  flask  between  him  and 
the  light,  he  muttered,  "Oh,  you  yellow  demon  of 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

hell,  see  what  you  have  done  for  one  spineless  creat 
ure!" 

Restoring  the  flask  to  the  drawer,  he  sat  down 
in  an  easy-chair,  put  his  hands  over  his  face  and 
remained  still  for  a  long  time. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  threw  himself  on  his  bed.  He  was  lying  with 
his  dull  stare  on  the  white  ceiling  when  he 
heard  the  voices  of  his  sister-in-law  and  her  child 
in  the  hall  below.  The  front  door  opened.  They 
were  going  out — out  into  the  open  air  with  free 
consciences,  he  told  himself,  with  a  pang  of  fresh 
pain.  He  stifled  a  groan  with  the  end  of  a  pillow 
into  which  he  had  turned  his  face.  Then  he  sat 
up  to  listen.  It  was  a  step  on  the  stair — a  step  he 
had  known  from  childhood.  It  was  that  of  his 
brother  William. 

"He  is  coming!  He  is  coming  up  here,"  Charles 
muttered,  aghast.  "Well,  it  is  his  right.  He  waited 
till  the  others  went  out  so  that  he  can  rave  and 
storm  to  his  heart's  content.  Yes,  he  is  coming. 
He  has  heard  about  the  club,  and  all  the  rest.  This 
time  he  will  kick  me  out.  He  has  stood  me  long 
enough,  in  God's  name." 

Charles  sat  erect  and  adjusted  his  dressing-gown 
with  nervous  hands.  The  step  was  now  near.  The 
top  of  the  flight  of  stairs  was  almost  reached. 
Charles  stood  up  as  a  gentle  rap  was  sounded  on  the 
door. 

"Come  in,"  he  called  out,  his  husky  voice  crack 
ing  in  his  parched  throat.  The  door  was  slowly 

19 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

opened  and  William  Browne,  pale,  haggard,  and 
trembling  nervously,  entered. 

"Sit  down,  old  man,"  Charles  said,  indicating  a 
chair.  "Sit  down.  I  thought  you'd  come." 

"Thank  you."  The  movement  toward  the  chair 
conveyed  an  idea  of  almost  helpless  groping. 

"I  am  sorry  I  wasn't  fit  to  come  down,"  Charles 
faltered.  "I  don't  show  your  house  much  respect, 
Billy,  but  at  least  I  can  hide  myself  when  I  have 
sense  enough  left." 

The  banker  groaned  as  he  sank  into  the  chair 
and  sat  staring  at  the  floor.  His  brother  took  an 
other  chair  close  to  the  table.  He  lowered  his 
tangled  head  to  the  table  and  waited.  But  no  further 
sound  came  from  his  companion. 

"Oh,  I've  hit  him  hard — I've  hit  him  hard  this 
time!"  Charles  thought  to  himself.  "He  has  lost 
all  hope  of  me  now.  It  is  hard  for  him  to  say  what 
he  has  to  say,  but  he  is  going  to  say  it.  He  looks 
like  Uncle  James  now,  with  those  grim  lines  about 
his  mouth.  Poor  Billy!  he  deserves  a  better  deal 
from  me,  for  God  knows  he  has  been  a  good  brother. 
No  one  else  would  have  borne  with  me  as  he  has  all 
these  years.  But  he  has  reached  his  limit.  His 
endurance  is  ended.  In  the  first  place,  I  must  leave 
the  bank.  Yes,  that  is  first — then,  then,  yes,  I 
must  leave  this  house.  He  will  say  I  have  turned  it 
into  a  hog-pen.  He  is  calm.  God!  how  calm  he  is! 
He  is  choosing  his  words.  He  has  determined  to 
speak  gently.  I  can  see  that." 

"Lessie  and  Ruth  have  gone  out,"  William  pres 
ently  said,  without  raising  his  eyes.  "Michael  said 
you  were  here,  and  I  took  this  opportunity  to — to — 

20 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  know;  I  expected  you,"  Charles  heard  his  own 
voice  as  from  a  great  distance,  so  faint  was  his  utter 
ance.  He  cleared  his  throat.  "Yes,  I  knew  you'd 
come.  There  was  nothing  else  for  you  to  do." 

William's  head  rocked  to  and  fro  despondently. 

"I  don't  think  you  know  why  I've  come,"  he  said, 
grimly,  and  he  raised  his  all  but  bloodshot  eyes  and 
fixed  them  on  his  brother's  lowered  head. 

"Oh  yes,  you  have  heard  of  this  last  debauch  of 
mine,  and  the  damnable  acts  that  went  with  it — 
my  expulsion  from  the  club,  the  trial  at  the  police 
court,  along  with  other  common  loafers,  and — 

"I  hardly  know  whether  I  heard  of  them  or  not," 
William  said,  his  stare  now  on  his  brother's  face. 
' '  You  speak  of  yourself.  What  about  me  ?  My  God  I 
Charlie,  what  about  me?" 

"Oh,  I  know  that  you've  gone  the  limit." 

"Gone  the  limit?  Then  you  know,"  William 
broke  in,  his  lower  lip  hanging  helplessly  from  his 
gleaming  teeth.  "You  know  about  me — but  how 
could  you  know?  It  is  my  own  private  matter, 
and—" 

"I  know  that  your  patience  is  exhausted,  Billy. 
I  know  that  you  are  sensible  enough  to  see  that  I 
am  no  fit  occupant  of  your  house.  Your  wife  is  a 
sensitive,  delicate  woman.  Your  child  is — " 

"Oh,  that  is  what  you  think  I  mean!"  William 
broke  in.  "Great  God!  you  think  that  I  am  worried 
about  that!  Listen  to  me,  Charlie.  You  sit  there 
accusing  yourself,  perhaps  feeling  that  you  have 
committed  unpardonable  sins,  but  look  straight  at 
me.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I'd  be  the  happiest  man 
alive  if  I  could  exchange  places  with  you  this  morn- 

21 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ing.  You  have  done  this,  and  you  have  done  that, 
but  you  have  been  honest — honest — honest — honest ! 
I've  seen  you  tried.  I've  seen  you  need  money 
badly,  but  you  have  never  touched  a  penny  that 
was  not  your  own.  Charlie,  I  am  a  thief!" 

Charles  straightened  up  in  his  chair.  He  laid 
his  slender  hand  with  the  long  fingers  and  curving 
nails  on  the  table  and  stared,  as  if  bewildered  by 
what  he  had  heard. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Billy,"  he  said, 
slowly  shaking  his  head.  "You  can't  be  in  earnest.'1 

"But  I  am,"  the  banker  groaned.  "I  have  wanted 
to  tell  you  for  a  week  past,  and  I  would  have  done 
so  if  you  hadn't  begun  to  drink  again.  Do  you  re 
member  when  I  came  to  your  desk  Friday  afternoon  ? 
I  wanted  then  to  ask  you  into  my  office,  but  I  saw 
you  had  been  drinking,  and  I  knew  that  you'd  not 
understand.  I've  taken  money  from  the  vaults, 
Charlie.  I'm  short  sixty  thousand  dollars,  and  there 
is  no  chance  now  to  avoid  detection." 

It  was  as  if  the  declaration  had  completely  sobered 
the  younger  man.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  towering 
above  the  shrunken  form  in  the  chair. 

"You  can't  mean  that  seriously,"  he  faltered, 
his  drink-flushed  face  paling.  "Oh,  you  can't, 
Billy!" 

"But  I  do.  My  transactions  have  been  secret; 
through  a  broker  in  New  York  I  bought  copper  on  a 
margin.  It  kept  going  against  me  till  all  my  funds 
and  available  collateral  were  used  up.  I  was  sure 
it  would  win.  All  hell  told  me  it  would  win.  I 
couldn't  stand  the  disgrace  of  failure.  It  meant 
losing  my  position,  too.  I  struggled  with  it  all  one 

22 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

night  in  the  bank,  and  the  next  morning,  when  the 
time-lock  opened  the  vaults,  I  took  the  money  and, 
with  it  in  my  pocket,  I  went  to  New  York  and  put 
it  up." 

"You  did?  You  did?  My  God!  Billy,  and  lost 
it!" 

"Within  twenty-four  hours.  Charlie,  you  have 
been  a  drunkard,  but  your  soul  has  remained  clean. 
But  I'm  lost — I'm  lost.  I'll  be  sent  to  jail.  My 
wife  will  shrink  in  shame  from  the  public  gaze.  My 
child  will  grow  up  to  see  that  I  have  set  her,  by  my 
own  act,  into  a  despised  class.  Great  God!  that 
little  trusting  thing  will  have  to  bear  my  just  punish 
ment  !  So — so  you  thought  I'd  come  here  to  reproach 
you,  eh?  You  say  you  have  been  turned  out  of  a 
club.  I  am  being  turned  into  a  prison.  Charlie,  I 
was  a  coward  when  I  took  that  money.  I  am  a 
coward  now,  and  I  cannot  face  this  thing.  You 
must  not  object  to  what  I  nave  to  do.  It  is  dis 
honorable,  but  it  is  more  honorable  than  the  other." 

"You  don't  mean — you  can't  mean — " 

"There  is  nothing  else  to  do,  Charlie.  Don't  you 
see  that  in  this  way  it  will  be  all  over  at  once? 
Think  of  the  arrest,  the  long  trial,  the  certain  con 
viction,  the  parting,  the  stripes,  the  clipped  hair! 
No,  no,  you  must  not  oppose  me.  Ruth  will  forget 
me  then,  but,  alive  and  in  jail,  I'd  be  a  canker  on 
her  young  soul.  Lessie  could  marry  again.  God 
knows  I'd  want  her  to  do  so.  Yes,  it  is  the  only 
way  out,  Charlie." 

The  drunkard  seemed  a  drunkard  no  longer.  He 
might  have  been  an  impassioned  young  priest  full 
of  a  holy  desire  to  comfort  as  he  stood  before  the 
3  23 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

wilted  man  and  clasped  his  hands.  He  knelt  at 
his  brother's  knees,  he  caught  the  tense  fingers  in 
his. 

"You  shall  not  kill  yourself!"  he  cried.  "God 
will  show  you  a  way  to  avoid  it.  I  feel  it  within 
me.  There  must  be  a  way — there  must!" 

' '  There  is  no  other  way !' '  William  groaned.  "  I ' ve 
thought  of  everything  under  heaven  till  I'm  crazed 
with  it  all."  He  stood  up.  He  put  his  limp  arm 
about  the  shoulders  of  his  brother. 

"Will  it  be  known  at  once?  Do  the  directors 
suspect?"  Charles  asked. 

"Not  yet,  but  you  know  the  bank  examiner  will 
be  here  Thursday.  It  can't  be  kept  from  him.  If 
I  were  unmolested  for  three  months  I  could  replace 
the  money.  I'm  sure  more  than  that  amount  will 
come  out  of  the  Western  mining  lands  I  hold.  The 
sale  is  made,  and  only  a  legal  technicality  holds  back 
the  final  settlement." 

"Ah,  then  if  you  confessed  the  truth  to  the  direc 
tors,  and  promised  to  replace  the  money,  would 
they—" 

"They  would  send  me  to  jail,  just  the  same," 
William  answered.  "They  are  that  sort,  every  man 
of  them.  In  their  eyes  a  man  who  will  steal  once 
will  steal  again,  and  they  may  be  right — they  may 
be  right." 

"Nevertheless,  you  must  not  think  of — the — the 
other  thing,  Billy.  For  God's  sake,  don't!"  Charles 
pleaded. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  William  swayed  in  his 
brother's  embrace  and  turned  toward  the  door. 
Charles  released  him,  and  stood  speechless  in  sheer 

24 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

helplessness   as   his   brother   stalked   to   the   door, 
opened  it,  and  went  slowly  down  the  stairs. 

Left  alone,  the  younger  man  turned  to  a  window 
and  stood  staring  blankly  out  into  the  sunshine. 
Presently  he  went  to  the  bureau,  opened  a  drawer, 
and  took  out  the  flask  of  whisky.  Taking  a  glass, 
he  poured  some  of  the  fluid  out  and  then  stood 
staring  at  it  in  surprise.  A  strange  thing  had  hap 
pened.  It  was  like  a  miracle,  and  yet  psychologists 
have  said  that  it  belongs  to  the  regular  order  of 
nature.  Charles  was  conscious  of  no  desire  for  the 
drink  before  him;  in  fact,  he  was  averse  to  it.  He 
was  under  the  sway  of  a  high  spiritual  emotion, 
which  the  thing  in  his  hand  seemed  vaguely  to' 
oppose.  He  marveled  over  the  change  in  himself  as 
he  held  the  glass  up  to  the  light. 

"I'm  asking  poor  Billy  to  be  a  man,"  he  said, 
' '  while  I  am  less  than  one  myself.  Strange !  strange ! ' ' 
he  muttered,  wonderingly,  "but  I  feel  as  if  I  shall 
never  drink  again — never,  never!"  With  a  hand  that 
was  quite  steady  he  took  the  glass  to  the  window 
and  emptied  its  contents  on  the  grass  in  the  little 
plot  below.  Then  he  began  to  shave  himself,  and 
after  that  was  done  he  dressed  himself  carefully. 

The  church-bells  were  ringing. 

"Oh,  I  must  save  him — I  must  save  them  all!" 
he  kept  saying.  "Something  must  be  done.  But 
what?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  Wednesday  night.  William  Browne  had 
not  come  home  to  dinner.  Charles  looked  into  the 
dining-room.  Celeste  and  Ruth  were  in  their  places 
at  the  table. 

"William  telephoned  that  he  could  not  come  up," 
Celeste  said,  as  he  sat  down.  "He  says  he  has  work 
to  do  at  the  bank  to-night." 

"Yes.  I'm  going  back  myself  at  once,"  Charles 
answered.  "In  fact,  I  am  not  a  bit  hungry.  I  had 
something  late  this  afternoon — sandwiches  and  tea. 
If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  won't  stay." 

As  he  rose,  Celeste  lifted  an  odd  stare  to  his  face, 
but  simply  nodded  as  he  was  leaving  the  room. 

"Don't  go,  Uncle  Charlie,"  the  child  protested. 
"Stay  for  your  dinner." 

"No,  I  must  go."  He  came  back,  bent  over  her 
chair,  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  and  then  hurried 
away. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  reached  the  bank. 
The  outer  doors  were  closed,  but  a  dim  light  could 
be  seen  through  a  plate-glass  window  in  front. 
Softly  inserting  his  key,  he  turned  the  bolt  and 
entered. 

' '  My  God !  he  may  not  be  here,  after  all !"  Charles 
thought,  as  he  shut  the  door  noiselessly.  Then  he 

26 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

saw  a  light  in  the  direction  of  his  brother's  private 
office  and  went  toward  it,  now  more  hopefully.  He 
was  near  the  office  door  when  he  heard  a  sound  like 
the  hurried  closing  of  a  desk  drawer. 

"Who  is  that?"  a  startled  voice  called  out. 

"It  is  I,  Billy.    May  I  come  in?" 

There  was  no  reply,  and  Charles  pushed  the  door 
open.  The  banker  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  glare  of  a 
green-shaded  electric  lamp.  His  face  was  ghastly 
pale,  and  rendered  more  so  by  the  greenish  light 
that  fell  upon  it. 

"What  did  you  come  for?"  he  asked,  almost  dog 
gedly,  and  yet  without  a  trace  of  impatience  or 
anger. 

"Because  you  didn't  come  to  dinner,  and  be 
cause — •' ' 

"Because  you  are  still  watching  me.  Say  it  and 
be  done  with  it,"  broke  in  William,  in  a  tone  which 
was  scarcely  audible  as  it  rose  from  his  husky  throat. 

"Yes,  Billy.  That's  it.  You  have  scarcely  been 
out  of  my  sight  since  Sunday  morning.  The  ex 
aminer  will  be  here  to-morrow.  I  know  how  you  feel 
about  that,  you  see.  You  told  me  what  you  wanted 
to  do.  I  have  seen  the  thought  in  your  eyes  often 
since  then.  But  it  shall  not  be  so,  Billy.  I  love  you. 
You  are  the  only  one  in  the  world  whom  I  do  love 
very  much.  You  shall  not  kill  yourself,  Billy." 

William  lowered  his  head.  His  chin  rested  on 
his  chest.  "There  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  he  groaned. 
' '  I  cannot  face  this  thing.  They  say  men  are  always 
insane  who  do  such  things,  but  it  is  not  so.  I  am 
mentally  sound.  I  see  all  that  lies  ahead  of  me — 
everything,  even  the  thoughts  that  will  spring  to  life 

27 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

in  the  minds  of  my  wife  and  child.     Go  away  and 
leave  me,  Charlie.    I  want  to  be  alone." 

"What  did  you  put  into  that  drawer  just  as  I 
entered?"  Charles  asked,  leaning  forward. 

"Never  mind,"  William  said.    "Go  away." 

"I  want  to  know  what  it  was,"  Charlie  protested. 
He  reached  down  and  caught  the  handle  of  the 
drawer. 

William  made  a  slight  movement  as  if  to  stop 
him,  but  desisted,  uttering  a  low  groan  as  he  did  so. 
Charles  opened  the  drawer.  A  long  revolver  lay  on 
the  papers  within.  He  took  it  out,  and  shuddered 
as  he  held  it  behind  him. 

"You  are  not  going  to  shoot  yourself,  Billy,"  he 
said,  firmly.  "I  am  not  going  to  permit  it." 

William  made  no  reply,  and  with  the  revolver 
in  his  hand,  Charles  went  into  the  adjoining  counting- 
room  and  turned  on  the  light  at  his  own  desk.  For 
twenty  minutes  he  sat  resting  his  head  on  his  hand, 
his  elbow  on  the  desk,  the  weapon  before  him.  Pres 
ently  his  eyes  began  to  glow,  his  face  was  flushed, 
his  pulse  was  throbbing.  "I  have  it,"  he  said.  "I 
have  it." 

Laying  the  revolver  on  the  desk,  he  turned  back 
to  his  brother's  office.  William  sat  as  he  had  left 
him,  his  limp  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his 
disheveled  head  lowered. 

"Listen,  Billy,  listen!"  Charles  began.  "I  want 
to  tell  you  something  about  myself  first,  and  then 
about  you.  You  must  listen.  It  is  important.  It 
is  your  chance,  and  a  splendid  one." 

"My  chance?"  echoed  the  banker,  "What 
chance?" 

28 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

•  "Billy,  I  am  down  and  out.  I've  lost  all  my 
friends  and  social  standing.  I  don't  want  to  remain 
here  longer.  I  want  to  go  away  off  somewhere 
among  strangers  and  begin  life  over  again." 

"Well,  well,  why  tell  me  about  it  when  you  see 
that  I—" 

"Because  it  concerns  you,  Billy.  Listen,  it  is 
both  your  chance  and  mine.  I  want  to  live  a  decent, 
sober  life,  and  you  say  if  you  could  stave  this  thing 
off  for  a  few  months  you  could  replace  the  missing 
money. ' ' 

"I  could,  but—" 

"Then  it  will  be  done,  and  I'll  tell  you  how.  It 
is  very  simple.  I  am  just  now  the  talk  of  the  town 
on  account  of  the  life  I  have  been  leading.  People 
will  not  be  surprised  at  anything  reported  of  me, 
the  directors  least  of  all.  You  know  they  would 
have  discharged  me  long  ago  but  for  your  relation 
to  me." 

"I  don't  understand.  I  can't  see  what  you  are 
driving  at,"  William  stared  with  his  bloodshot  eyes. 
"You  say  you  see  a  way.  For  God's  sake,  for  God's 
sake—" 

"Yes,  but  you  are  not  listening.  I  am  coming  to 
it.  I  am  going  away  to-night,  Billy.  I'm  going 
away  never  to  return.  I  am  going  out  of  your  life 
as  completely  as  if  I'd  never  been  in  it.  I'll  never 
write  back.  You  will  never  know  whether  I'm  dead 
or  alive." 

"You  are  going  away?  Why  are  you  going?  I 
thought  of  it  myself,  but  I  couldn't  stand  it.  No, 
there  is  no  other  way  than  to  end  it  all." 

"Don't  you  see  what  I  mean,  Billy?  It  is  known 

29 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

that  I  have  access  to  the  vaults  during  business 
hours,  and  when  I  turn  up  missing  to-morrow  the 
examiner  will  logically  couple  me  and  my  bad  record 
with  the  money  that  is  gone.  Now  you  understand." 

With  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  revolving-chair 
the  banker  drew  himself  to  his  feet.  A  wild  look  of 
hope  was  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  ghastly  face.  He 
groped  his  way  to  his  brother,  his  hands  outstretched 
as  if  to  prevent  himself  from  falling. 

"You — -you  can't  mean  it,  Charlie!"  he  said  in  his 
throat.  "And  if  you  do  mean  it  I  can't  let  you — I 
can't,  I  can't!" 

"You  must,  because  I  wish  it.  I  want  to  be  of 
some  use  to  you  and  to  Lessie  and  the  baby.  Oh, 
I  owe  you  a  lot — a  lot !  Think  how  you  have  borne 
with  me — how  I  have  disgraced  you." 

"I  can't  let  you — I  can't,"  William  cried,  and  yet 
he  was  panting  with  a  vast  new  joy.  His  eyes  bored 
into  those  of  his  brother.  "What,  let  you  do  that? 
No,  no.  I  could  not  permit  it." 

"Billy,  you  see,  I  want  to  do  it  as  much  for  my 
self  as  you.  I  want  to  be  absolutely  free  from  old 
associations.  You  can  replace  the  money.  You 
can  claim  that  you  are  doing  it,  you  see,  because 
you  were  responsible  for  my  staying  on  when  I 
ought  to  have  been  discharged.  It  will  all  seem 
so — so  plausible — so  very  natural." 

Turning,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  William  stalked 
back  to  his  desk.  He  drew  his  chair  around.  ' '  My 
God!  My  God!"  his  brother  heard  him  muttering 
as  he  lowered  himself  into  it.  Dropping  his  head 
to  the  desk,  he  was  still  for  a  moment.  Charles 
went  to  him. 

30 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"You  have  nothing  to  do  with  it."  He  touched 
his  brother's  bowed  head.  "I  am  going,  whether  you 
consent  or  not.  I  am  going  to-night.  When  I  am 
missed  in  the  morning  that  will  tell  the  tale.  You 
won't  even  have  to  explain.  They  will  sympathize 
so  much  with  you  that  they  will  not  ask  you  many 
questions.  Oh,  it  is  all  right  now!  You  will  have 
a  chance  to  pay  a  just  debt  and  I'll  have  a  chance 
to  make  a  new  life  for  myself.  They  can't  catch 
me,  Billy.  I  know  how  to  dodge  the  slickest  de 
tectives  on  my  trail.  The  world  is  big  and  full  of 
adventures.  Do  you  know,  Billy,  I  have  always 
been  haunted  with  the  idea  of  freedom  like  this? 
Don't  you  worry.  I'll  be  all  right,  whatever  happens. 
And  listen,  Billy.  I  swear  to  you  by  the  memory 
of  our  mother  that  I'll  never  tell  a  living  soul  of  this 
agreement  of  ours.  Never!" 

William  raised  his  head.  He  clasped  his  brother's 
hands  and  pressed  them  convulsively.  "Oh,"  he 
gulped,  "if  I  want  to  escape  my  just  punishment, 
forgive  me — forgive  me,  Charlie,  for  I  am  afraid  of 
death.  I  have  faced  it  for  more  than  a  week.  It  is 
an  awful  thing  to  think  of  all  that  it  means,  its 
effect  on  Lessie  and  the  baby.  Oh,  Charlie,  Charlie !' ' 
His  lower  lip  was  twisted  by  suppressed  emotion. 
His  eyes  were  filling  with  tears. 

"I  am- going.  That  is  settled,"  Charles  said,  with 
feeling.  "And  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  I'll  hurry 
home  and  pack  a  few  things.  There  is  a  train  for 
New  York  at  midnight.  I  can  hide  there  safely 
enough  for  a  while.  I  know  the  ropes.  Good-by, 
old  chap." 

William  stood  up.  He  clung  to  his  brother's 

31 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

hands  for  a  moment,  then  put  his  arms  around 
him.  "Good-by,"  he  gulped.  "I  hate  to  let  you  do 
it,  but  I  am  a  coward — not  only  a  thief,  but  a 
weakling  and  a  coward.  You  must  have  money. 
Wait.  I'll— " 

"No,  no,  Billy."  The  other  shook  his  head.  "I 
sha'n't  take  a  cent  from  the  bank,  under  any  con 
sideration.  You  must  begin  anew  as  I  am  going  to 
begin  anew.  You  will  owe  to  these  men  every  cent 
you  can  get  till  that  debt  is  paid.  Besides,  I  have 
a  little  money  and  I  shall  not  need  much,  for  I 
am  going  to  work  for  my  living.  I'll  find  something 
to  do.  It  won't  be  an  indoor  job  like  this,  for  I 
am  tired  of  it.  I  want  to  use  my  body  instead  of 
my  brain.  I  want  to  tramp  from  place  to  place  in 
the  open  sunlight  and  free  air.  I  want  to  be  a 
hobo.  I  want  to  put  myself  down  on  the  level  of 
the  most  unfortunate  of  men.  I  want  to  wring  the 
poison  of  my  past  out  of  me.  This  chance  seems 
a  godsend  to  me.  It  will  save  Lessie  and  little 
Ruth  from  great  sorrow  and  humiliation,  and  you 
from  a  desperate  act.  Life  is  a  short  thing,  any 
way,  isn't  it,  Billy?  Don't  ever  expect  to  hear 
from  me  again.  In  addition  to  the  risk,  it  will 
be  best  for  your  state  of  mind.  Think  of  me  as 
dead." 

William  made  a  feeble  effort  to  detain  him,  but 
he  was  gone.  The  banker  heard  him  softly  clos 
ing  the  big  front  door,  and  he  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  tingling  under  a  growing  sense  of  vast  relief. 
To  be  sure,  he  was  losing  his  only  brother,  but  he 
was  retaining  countless  other  things.  He  told  him 
self  that  the  plan  was  a  marvelous  one.  Every 

32 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

flagrant  act  of  his  dissipated  brother  gave  color  to 
the  implied  charge  against  him,  while  his  own  high 
standing  and  the  agreement  of  restitution  he  was 
to  make  would  lift  him  above  all  possible  sus 
picion. 


CHAPTER  V 

/^\UTSIDE,  the  sky  was  clear.  The  stars  were 
Vy  coining  out.  Their  light  was  pale  by  contrast 
to  the  street-lamps.  A  cool  breeze  fanned  Charles's 
hot  face  as  he  made  his  way  with  a  step  that  was 
almost  buoyant  toward  the  Common.  Some  students 
on  one  of  the  walks  were  singing  a  college  song  he 
used  to  love  in  those  gay  days  which  now  seemed 
so  far  away. 

He  was  passing  a  little  wine-room  where  he  had 
been  fond  of  going  with  certain  friends,  and  almost 
by  habit  he  paused  and  faced  its  lighted  windows. 
Then  he  was  conscious  again  of  that  strange  ex 
perience  which  had  immediately  followed  the  tragic 
revelation  his  brother  had  made  to  him.  He  had 
no  desire  to  drink.  He  laughed  as  he  turned  and 
strode  onward  across  the  street  to  the  Common. 
Was  there  really  such  a  thing  as  a  new  birth  in 
which,  under  stress  of  some  rare  spiritual  experience, 
a  man  was  completely  changed?  It  might  really 
be  so,  he  told  himself,  for  nothing  like  this  had 
ever  come  to  him  before.  He  was  happy.  Indeed, 
something  like  ecstasy  had  come  upon  him;  it  was 
in  his  very  veins,  hovering  over  him  like  indescrib 
able  light.  He  thought  of  William's  dumb  look  of 
relief,  and  a  joyous  sob  rose  and  hung  in  his  throat. 

34 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

It  was  pain  and  yet  it  was  not  pain.  How  wonder 
fully  beautiful  the  whole  world  seemed!  There  was 
really  nothing  out  of  order.  Till  a  few  minutes 
ago  all  was  meaningless  chaos  and  tragic  despair, 
and  yet  now — now — he  could  not  put  it  into  words. 
He  thought  of  the  action  of  the  club  which  had 
turned  him  out,  and  smiled.  Why,  the  officials  were 
merely  puppets  of  convention,  and  he  had  been  a 
naughty  child.  The  police  court!  How  funny  the 
grave,  fat  judge  looked  as  he  delivered  that  fatherly 
lecture  and  imposed  that  fine!  Oh,  it  was  all  in 
life,  and  life  was  a  mosaic  of  rare  beauty! 

When  he  reached  Beacon  Street  a  night  policeman 
was  on  the  corner.  Charles  saluted  him  and  gave 
him  a  cigar.  "Fine  night,  fine  night!"  he  said. 

"It  is  indeed,"  the  man  answered. 

Charles  found  the  house  dark,  save  for  the  gas 
which  was  turned  low  in  the  hall.  He  let  himself 
in  softly,  and  ascended  the  thickly  carpeted  stairs 
to  his  room.  Turning  on  the  electric  light,  he 
looked  about  him.  He  must  hurry. 

"Yes,  I'll  write  a  note  and  leave  it  here  for  Will 
iam,"  he  reflected.  "It  will  help  him  explain  to 
morrow.  He  need  only  direct  the  examiner's  at 
tention  to  it,  and  they  will  understand,  or  think 
they  understand." 

He  sat  down  at  a  little  table,  drew  some  paper 
toward  him,  and  began  to  write. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER  [ran  the  note], — When  you  get  this  I  shall 
be  gone.  I  need  not  explain.  When  the  examiners  get  to  the 
vaults  they  will  see  why  I  had  to  leave.  I  have  been  going  from 
bad  to  worse,  as  every  one  knows.  I  have  abused  your  confi 
dence,  love,  and  hospitality.  You  will  never  see  me  again.  Sixty 

35 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

thousand  dollars  is  a  large  amount,  I  know,  but  on  my  honor 
I  am  not  taking  all  of  it  with  me.  Most  of  it  is  gone  already. 
Good-by.  ~ 

L/. 

He  put  the  note  into  an  envelope,  sealed  it,  and 
directed  it  to  his  brother.  He  had  just  done  so 
when  he  heard  a  soft  step  on  the  stairs  leading  down 
from  the  servants'  rooms  above.  There  was  a  rap 
on  the  door.  He  opened  it.  It  was  Michael. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  come  in,"  Michael  saidf 
lamely.  ' '  I  was  about  to  go  to  bed,  sir.  But  is  there 
anything  I  can  do  for  you  to-night — a  cup  of  some 
thing  to  drink — coffee  or  tea?" 

"Not  to-night,  Mike,"  Charles  answered.  "The 
truth  is  that  I  am  off  for  Springfield — on  a  little 
business  of  my  own.  I  must  get  away  at  once.  I 
may  have  to  stay  there  a  short  while — several  days, 
in  fact,  and  I  want  to  pack  a  few  things.  Pull  out 
my  dress-suit  case  from  the  closet,  will  you,  and 
dust  it  off.  Then  put  in  half  a  dozen  shirts  and 
underwear." 

"Your  evening  suit,  sir?" 

"No,  oh  no,  not  that,"  Charles  smiled.  "I'm 
not  going  into  society  on  this  trip.  I'll  get  out  what 
I  need." 

Taking  the  articles  from  a  drawer  of  the  bureau, 
Charles  tossed  them  on  the  bed  near  the  suit-case 
which  the  servant  had  brushed  and  opened.  "Put 
them  in,  please,  Mike.  It  will  save  time." 

The  suit-case  was  packed  and  locked.  Charles 
suddenly  observed  that  Mike  was  eying  the  ad 
dressed  envelope  curiously. 

"Oh,  that  note?"  the  young  man  said,  averting 

36 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

his  eyes  oddly *,*." That  is  for  my  brother.  Will  you 
hand  it  to  him — not  to-night,  I  mean — at  the  break 
fast-table  in  the  morning?  Don't  fail,  Mike.  It  is 
rather  important." 

The  servant  took  it  up.  He  held  it  tentatively. 
He  hesitated.  "He  does  not  know  that  you  are 
going,  sir?"  he  asked. 

Charles  stared  straight  at  the  floor.  "This  will 
tell  him  all  that  he  need  know,  Mike." 

Putting  the  note  into  his  pocket,  Michael  stolidly 
faced  his  companion.  "Of  course  it  does  not  con 
cern  me,"  he  faltered,  "but  somehow  you  talk  and 
act  like — •"  He  went  no  further. 

"Oh,  you  are  afraid  I'm  off  on  another  spree,  eh?" 
Charles  laughed.  "But  I'm  not,  Mike.  It  is  busi 
ness,  this  time,  and  serious  business  at  that." 

The  servant  was  not  satisfied,  as  was  evident 
from  his  unsettled  glances  here  and  there,  now  on 
the  young  man's  face,  again  on  the  suitcase  or  the 
floor. 

"You  may  have  forgotten  it,  sir,  but  only  the 
other  day  you  spoke  of  wanting  to  go  away  for  a 
long  stay,  and  the  little  unpleasantness  at  your  club 
and  the  police  court — " 

"I  see,  I  see,  you  don't  forget  things.  You  put 
two  and  two  together,"  Charles  interrupted.  "What 
is  that?" 

It  was  a  child's  startled  scream  from  Mrs.  Browne's 
room,  followed  by  the  assuring  tones  of  the  mother. 

"It  is  Ruth,"  Michael  explained.  "She  screams 
out  like  that  now  and  then  when  she  is  dreaming." 

"I  wish  I  could  see  the  little  thing,"  Charles 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  himself  now.  "They  are 

37 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

a  beautiful  pair — that  mother  arid  child.  Ah,  and 
they  have  been  sweet  and  good  to  me!" 

"Now,  I  am  afraid,  sir.  Indeed,  I  am,"  Michael 
said,  with  feeling. 

"Afraid  of  what,  Mike?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  not  Springfield  you  are  going  to, 
sir." 

"Ah,  you  are  suspicious!"  Charles  said,  in  ill- 
assumed  lightness. 

"I  haven't  known  you  from  boyhood  up  for  noth 
ing,  sir,"  Mike  said,  with  emotion.  "Ever  since 
your  talk  Sunday  I  have  been  afraid  you'd  leave." 

"Well,  then,  what  if  I  am  going,  Mike?  The 
world  is  big  and  full  of  opportunities,  and  I  am  tired 
of  this — I  really  am." 

"But  why  leave  like  this,  sir?"  Mike  demanded, 
gently.  "Surely  you  won't  go  without  telling  your 
folks  of  it  and  saying  good-by !  Why,  this  note  to 
your  brother  looks  as  if — as  if — " 

"Well,  I  do  want  to  slip  away,  Mike,  and  I'm 
going  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  You  will  under 
stand  to-morrow.  Everybody  in  Boston  will.  As 
for  that,  Mike,  a  drinking-man  will  do  many  things 
that  he  ought  not  to  do,  and — and  I  handle  money 
at  the  bank.  Don't  push  me  further  now.  Let's 
drop  it.  I  have  to  go,  and  that  settles  it." 

Michael  failed  to  understand,  for  he  was  thinking 
of  something  else.  "You  will  need  the  money  I  owe 
you,  sir,  and  I've  been  trying  to  get  it  up.  I  see  a 
chance  now,  sir.  My  sister  out  West  feels  that  she 
owes  at  least  half  of  that  debt  to  you,  and  her  hus 
band  has  been  doing  well.  She  wrote  me — " 

"Drop  that,  Mike,"  Charles  cried.  "I  don't  need 

38 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

that  money.  You  shall  never  pay  it — never.  I've 
given  that  to  your  mother,  do  you  understand,  not 
to  you,  but  to  her?" 

"It  shall  not  be  that  way,  sir,"  the  other  pleaded. 
"I  will  send  it  to  you.  But  as  for  your  doing  any 
thing  wrong  at  the  bank" — Charles's  statement  was 
dawning  on  him  slowly — "nobody  on  earth  could 
make  me  think  so." 

"Well,  never  mind  about  that,  Mike.  The  fact 
is  that  I  must  go — now  and  at  once.  Let  me  out 
at  the  front  door." 

"Do  you  want  a  cab,  sir?" 

"A  cab?"  Charles  smiled.  "Not  to-night.  In 
fact,  I  am  going  through  the  darkest  streets  I  can 
get  into.  I  know  every  alley  in  this  old  town.  Good- 
by,  Mike.  Deliver  the  note  to  my  brother  in  the 
morning." 

4 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  near  midnight  when  he  reached  the  sta 
tion.  He  had  met  no  one  on  the  way  whom  he 
knew.  He  was  tired  and  his  arm  ached  from  the 
weight  of  the  bag,  for  he  had  taken  a  long,  round 
about  way  to  avoid  being  seen.  Few  persons  were 
at  the  station,  for  it  was  not  a  popular  train  that 
he  was  to  take.  He  bought  his  ticket  at  the  little 
window,  glad  that  the  clerk  was  too  busy  to  look 
up  as  he  pushed  the  exact  fare  in  to  him.  This 
done,  he  took  up  his  bag  and  hastened  for  the  train. 
He  sought  the  smoking-car,  feeling  that  he  would 
be  less  conspicuous  there  than  in  the  coaches  set 
aside  for  the  accommodation  of  women  and  chil 
dren.  He  had  the  car  almost  to  himself  and  was 
glad  of  the  fact.  Seated  in  one  corner,  he  lighted 
a  cigar.  Somehow  he  was  impatient  for  the  train 
to  move.  He  was  not  guilty  of  the  crime  he  had 
shouldered,  but  he  had  a  guilty  man's  fear  of  de 
tection  at  that  moment.  He  almost  felt  as  if  he 
and  William  were  identical,  for,  after  all,  would  not 
William's  arrest  and  exposure  have  been  quite  as 
painful  to  him?  The* train  did  not  start.  He  was 
becoming  seriously  alarmed  now.  He  went  to  a 
window  and  looked  out.  An  attendant  with  a  lan 
tern  stood  close  by. 

40 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

% 

"What  is  the  delay?"  Charles  asked. 

"Accident  ahead,"  the  man  answered.  "Train 
off  the  track  ten  miles  away.  The  wrecking-train 
has  gone  on.  They  will  have  the  road  clear  before 
long.  May  as  well  wait  here  as  farther  on." 

Charles  went  back  to  his  corner.  Why  was  he 
nervous?  he  argued.  What  was  there  to  fear, 
since  the  exposure  would  not  be  made  till  the  fol 
lowing  morning  after  the  bank  opened?  Why, 
nothing — nothing  at  all.  He  puffed  at  his  cigar. 
The  only  thing  was  to  avoid  being  seen  by  any 
passing  acquaintance;  but  his  face  was  known  to 
many  of  all  classes  and  he  must  be  careful.  He 
pulled  the  brim  of  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes;  he 
raised  the  collar  of  his  light  overcoat  above  his  ears, 
and  crouched  down  as  low  as  possible.  The  train 
still  lingered.  His  watch  told  him  that  it  was  two 
o'clock.  He  stretched  his  legs  out  on  the  seat  in 
front  of  him  and  tried  to  sleep.  He  was  quite 
fatigued,  and  yet  his  brain  was  too  active  to  permit 
it.  He  thought  of  little  Ruth.  Again  he  heard  her 
startled  cry  and  pictured  the  child  as  lying  in  his 
arms  and  being  soothed  back  to  sleep.  A  sob  filled 
his  throat.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was  going  out 
of  his  life  forever?  Was  it  possible  that  he  was 
actually  renouncing  home  and  home  ties  and  going 
out  into  a  new  world  in  which  he  would  be  abso 
lutely  unknown,  a  veritable  babe  of  mature  age 
born  among  strangers?  A  mood  of  deep  dejection  ' 
was  on  him  and  it  seemed  to  thicken  and  become 
more  depressing  as  the  hours  stretched  along.  Then 
terror  filled  him,  for  he  had  a  facile  imagination 
which  reached  out  for  the  disagreeable  as  well  as 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

the  pleasant.  What  if  the  train  were  not  to  go 
for  hours?  What  if  the  dawn  of  day  found  him 
still  in  Boston?  He  sat  up.  He  rose  and  went  to 
the  platform  of  the  car.  The  brakeman  with  the 
lantern  was  chatting  with  a  man  at  a  trunk-truck 
several  car-lengths  away.  He  descended  and  saun 
tered  up  to  them. 

"Any  news?"  he  asked  the  man  with  the  light. 

"Yes.  We  will  move  soon,"  was  the  answer.  "I 
see  you  are  sticking  to  it.  Most  of  the  passengers 
went  home,  to  take  a  morning  train.  You  could 
take  it  yourself,  if  you  are  bound  for  New  York, 
and  get  there  almost  as  soon  as  by  this  train." 

"Oh,  I'm  here  now  and  will  go  this  way,"  Charles 
answered.  He  turned  away,  for  he  realized  that  he 
had  made  his  first  serious  mistake  in  talking  to  the 
man  about  his  destination.  The  fellow  might  re 
member  it  later.  He  might  even  give  the  informa 
tion  to  the  police  when  they  got  on  his  trail.  If  the 
train  were  delayed  between  Boston  and  New  York 
a  telegram  might  be  sent  on  and  he  would  be  ar 
rested  upon  his  arrival.  He  shuddered — not  for  him 
self,  but  for  his  brother.  How  the  news  would 
stagger  William !  He  would  confess,  then.  He  would 
tell  it  all  rather  than  permit  the  punishment  to  fall 
where  it  was  not  merited.  Poor  haggard,  nerve- 
torn  William!  He  would  kill  himself,  and  the  black 
tragedy  would  settle  upon  the  old  home.  Charles 
went  back  to  his  seat  in  the  corner.  His  brain  was 
whirling  and  pounding  like  that  of  a  madman  ca 
pable  of  half  reasoning.  Another  hour  passed.  It 
was  three  o'clock.  A  desperate  idea  flashed  into 
his  mind.  What  if  he  should  leave  the  train  and 

42 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

take  to  the  country  roads?  Might  he  not  escape 
arrest  in  that  way?  He  was  about  to  resort  to  it 
"when  he  heard  a  shout  outside: 

"All  aboard!"  A  bell  on  the  locomotive  rang. 
Steam  was  heard  escaping.  The  cars  began  to  jerk 
one  against  the  other,  then  to  move  steadily  and 
to  pick  up  speed.  He  looked  through  the  open 
window.  Through  a  shower  of  fine  cinders  and 
wisps  of  steam  and  smoke  he  saw  the  street-lamps 
dancing  past,  whirling,  waltzing  to  the  roar  and 
clatter  of  the  cars.  Soon  they  were  left  behind. 
Fields  and  country  roads  lay  dimly  visible  in  the 
darkness.  He  was  now  conscious  of  a  feeling  of 
boundless  elation.  It  amounted  almost  to'ecstasy. 
He  chuckled.  After  all,  his  brother  and  the  others 
would  escape  the  thing  William  had  dreaded.  They 
would  live  in  happiness,  and  why  should  not  he 
manage  to  exist  in  the  new  life  before  him?  There 
must  be  a  God,  and  a  God  of  love  and  pity  and 
mercy;  surely  some  one,  something,  was  holding 
the  black  curtain  of  fate  aside  for  both  William  and 
himself,  that  he  might  enter  upon  a  further  proba 
tion  and  have  one  more  chance  to  make  good. 

The  conductor  was  coming,  his  ticket-punch  in 
hand. 

"What  time  shall  you  arrive  in  New  York?" 
Charles  asked,  as  casually  as  was  in  his  power. 

"About  eight  o'clock,"  the  conductor  answered, 
punching  the  ticket  and  handing  it  back.  "That 
is  the  best  we  can  do  now." 


CHAPTER  VII 

DECLINING  on  the  two  benches,  Charles  man- 
1  V  aged  to  fall  asleep,  and  in  spite  of  his  worries  he 
slept  soundly.  The  gray  morning  light  crept  in  at  the 
open  window  and  swept  his  dust-coated  face,  but 
still  he  did  not  wake.  The  light  grew  yellow  and 
warm  as  the  sun  rose,  but  still  he  slept.  He  waked 
and  sat  up  as  the  train  was  entering  the  suburbs  of 
New  York. 

"Safe — still  safe!"  was  his  first  thought,  as  he 
looked  about  him.  The  car  was  now  half-full  of 
passengers,  many  of  them  commuters  going  in  to 
work.  How  fresh,  clean,  and  contented  they  looked 
with  their  cigars  and  damp  papers,  and  what  a 
dismal  tramp  was  he,  at  least  in  his  own  eyes! 
There  was  a  little  lavatory  at  the  end  of  the  car, 
and  his  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  it,  wash  the  dust 
from  his  face  and  hands,  and  brush  off  his  clothing; 
then  it  occurred  to  him  that,  as  he  was,  he  was  less 
recognizable  than  otherwise,  and  he  gave  up  the 
idea. 

Slowly  the  long  train  clattered  over  the  switches 
and  crossings  and  pulled  into  the  station  at  Forty- 
second  Street.  The  vast  roof  cut  off  the  direct  rays  of 
the  sun  and  the  forms  and  faces  of  the  passengers 
became  indistinct  in  the  shadow.  He  followed  the 

44 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

others  down  the  packed  aisle  and  joined  the  stream 
of  passengers  on  the  platform,  all  forging  their  way 
to  the  street.  Covertly,  as  he  hurried  along,  holding 
his  bag  in  his  right  hand,  he  watched  the  crowd  of 
bystanders  to  see  if  any  one  wore  a  police  uniform. 
He  was  gratified  to  notice  that  the  way  seemed 
clear  in  that  respect.  And  then  he  smiled  at  his 
imagined  fears,  for  how  could  the  police  be  on  his 
track  before  the  opening  of  the  bank?  No,  no,  he 
was  safe  so  far,  and  he  would  soon  be  hidden  from 
sight  in  the  slums  of  the  great  city,  for  it  was  the 
slums  that  were  to  shelter  him.  There  no  one 
would  look  for  a  man  of  his  type. 

He  was  soon  out  in  the  crowded  thoroughfare. 
Somehow  it  appealed  to  him  to-day  more  than  ever 
before.  He  walked  along  the  street  until  he  reached 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  then  he  realized  that  he  was  not 
going  in  the  direction  he  desired  and  turned  back. 
He  walked  on  till  the  buildings  began  to  look  more 
antiquated  and  shabby,  and  then  he  turned  south. 
He  pursued  this  direction  till  he  had  reached  Twenty- 
eighth  Street,  and  then  turned  east  again.  The  sur 
roundings  were  now  decidedly  squalid.  The  street 
was  unclean  and  thronged.  The  houses  were  old 
three -story -and -basement  residences,  the  ground 
floors  of  many  having  been  turned  into  shops,  the 
upper  floors  being  rented  as  sleeping  quarters  at 
a  very  low  rate  as  was  shown  by  the  soiled  cards 
placed  against  the  window-panes  to  catch  the  eye 
of  passers-by. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  he  was  hungry, 
and  he  looked  about  him  for  a  place  to  break  his 
fast,  for  he  had  eaten  scarcely  anything  since  noon 

45 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

the  day  before.  Presently  he  descried  a  restaurant. 
It  was  located  on  the  first  floor  immediately  above 
a  delicatessen  shop.  The  street  in  front  of  it  was 
unclean,  ash-cans  and  garbage-pails  flanking  the 
crumbling  brownstone  steps  to  the  entrance;  and 
yet  his  aversion  to  these  unsavory  surroundings  was 
conquered  by  his  hunger  and  the  security  that  such 
a  place  afforded  him. 

He  went  in  and  was  surprised  at  the  inviting  ap 
pearance  of  the  room.  It  was  clean.  The  walls 
were  snow  white.  White-clothed  tables  stood  close 
together,  some  small,  some  long  and  narrow.  He 
put  down  his  bag  and  hung  his  hat  and  overcoat 
on  an  upright  rack.  The  tables  were  nearly  all 
filled  with  a  motley  assortment  of  human  beings. 
The  table  near  his  bag  had  a  single  occupant,  a 
young  man  of  about  his  own  age.  Charles  sat  down 
opposite  him.  The  fellow's  face  appealed  to  him 
vaguely,  as  reminding  him  of  some  countenance  he 
had  once  seen  and  forgotten.  It  was  a  rather  round 
face,  blue-eyed,  clean  shaved,  and  crowned  by  light- 
brown  curly  hair. 

A  waitress  in  spotless  apron  and  cap  came  to 
Charles.  "You  forgot  to  get  your  check,"  she  said. 

' '  Check  ?    What  is  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I'll  get  it  for  you,"  the  girl  said,  hurriedly, 
and  she  went  to  the  glass-inclosed  desk  by  the  door 
at  which  another  girl  sat. 

The  stranger  across  the  table  held  up  his  own 
check  and  smiled.  "It's  like  this,"  he  explained. 
"You  see  the  prices,  from  five  cents  up  to  one 
dollar,  are  printed  on  it.  The  girl  who  waits  on  you 
punches  the  amount  you  order,  and  that  is  what  you 

46 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

pay  as  you  turn  the  check  over  at  the  desk  when 
you  go  out." 

"Oh,  I  see!  Thank  you!"  Charles  liked  the  face 
more  than  ever.  Its  underlying  humor  and  good 
nature  at  once  soothed  and  attracted  him.  The 
waitress  came  back  with  the  check,  and  with  it 
brought  a  printed  bill  of  fare  which  she  gave  to 
Charles.  While  he  was  looking  it  over  she  bent 
near  the  man  across  the  table. 

"You  can't  keep  this  up,"  she  said,  gently.  "It 
will  kill  you.  I've  been  watching  you  for  a 
week." 

"Oh,  leave  that  to  me,"  he  answered,  with  a 
smile  that  Charles  now  saw  was  drawn  and  twisted 
by  manly  embarrassment.  "I've  been  this  way  be 
fore  and  pulled  through." 

The  waitress  sighed.  "I  wish  I  could  manage  it," 
she  said  in  an  undertone,  "but  I  can't.  That  woman 
at  the  desk  is  a  cat.  She  has  it  in  for  me." 

"You  don't  think  I'd  let  you  do  anything  like 
that  for  me,  I  hope,"  he  said,  sensitively.  "I  ap 
preciate  it  very  much,  but  no  working-girl  shall 
lose  through  me." 

Without  replying  she  came  around  and  bent  over 
Charles.  "Ready  to  order?"  she  asked. 

"Eggs  and  bacon  and  coffee  with  cream,"  he  said. 
As  he  spoke  he  noticed  that  his  table  companion 
had  apparently  ordered  nothing  but  the  few  slices 
of  bread  and  butter  which  he  was  slowly  eating. 
A  goblet  of  water  was  all  the  man  had  to  drink. 
Charles  now  understood  the  situation  and  he  wanted 
to  assist,  but  Boston  men  of  his  class  are  not  as 
free  with  strangers  as  Western  and  Southern  people, 

47 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  he  found  himself  unable  tactfully  to  accomplish 
what  he  desired. 

"You  are  not  quite  on  to  the  ropes,"  the  stranger 
remarked,  his  eyes  on  the  dress-suitcase  which 
Charles  had  put  down.  "It  was  all  new  to  me  when 
I  came  here,  but  it  doesn't  take  long  to  get  the  run 
of  things.  God  knows  it  is  simple  enough  if  you 
have  the  money  to  do  it  with." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Charles  responded.  "iVe  just 
come  in." 

The  waitress  was  bringing  his  breakfast.  She 
placed  it  before  him,  handing  him  a  paper  napkin 
and  leaving  spoons  and  knife  and  fork.  "Anything 
else?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing  now,  thank  you,"  Charles  answered. 

Instead  of  going  on  to  the  next  table  at  which 
a  man  and  a  woman  with  drink-flushed  faces  were 
seating  themselves  amid  the  soiled  dishes  left  by 
others,  she  leaned  again  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
young  man  opposite  Charles. 

"You  must  let  me  help,"  she  whispered.  "I 
know  you  are  all  right,  and  you  will  never  get  work 
if  you  are  underfed.  You  see,  I  know  because  I've 
been  there  myself." 

"Please,  please,  don't  mention  it,"  the  young  man 
said,  his  face  drawn  and  flushed  with  chagrin.  "I 
assure  you  I  am  all  right.  That's  a  good  girl — let 
it  drop." 

She  said  nothing,  but  moved  on  to  the  new  arrivals 
and  began  to  place  the  soiled  things  onto  a  tray 
preparatory  to  taking  their  order. 

"Do  you  intend  to  stop  in  the  city  awhile?"  the 
young  man  asked  Charles. 

48 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  may,"  the  Bostonian  returned.  "I  am  looking 
for  a  room  in  this  neighborhood." 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  them,"  the  other  smiled, 
"but  you  don't  always  run  across  clean  ones.  I've 
tried  several  places  and  left.  The  house  where  I 
am  now  is  clean  and  cheap,  and  I  think  there  are 
plenty  of  vacancies.  I  have  the  landlady's  card,  if 
you  care  to  look  her  up." 

"Thank  you,  I'd  like  to  do  so."  Charles  had  the 
feeling  that  he  would  like  to  see  more  of  the  stranger, 
and  living  in  the  same  house  might  afford  him  the 
opportunity.  The  young  man  took  a  card  from  his 
pocket,  and  as  he  got  up  he  laid  it  before  Charles. 
"I  hope  you  will  find  a  room  you  like,"  he  said, 
wearily,  as  he  reached  up  for  his  hat,  which  Charles 
noticed  was  dented  and  frayed  on  the  edges  of  the 
brim.  As  he  went  out  Charles  watched  him,  and 
saw  him  push  a  five-cent  piece  across  the  desk  to 
the  cashier.  He  looked  very  thin  and  his  step  seemed 
uncertain,  like  that  of  a  convalescent. 

The  waitress  came  back  to  Charles.  "He  is  in 
bad  shape,"  she  sighed.  "He  has  been  coming  here 
for  two  weeks  and  eating  like  that.  He  is  silly. 
He  won't  take  help  from  any  one.  He  has  been 
well  brought  up,  I'll  bet." 

"I  wanted  to  help  him,  but  I  didn't  see  an  open 
ing  for  it,"  Charles  said.  "It  was  kind  of  you  to 
offer  it." 

"Oh,  I'd  break  if  I  owned  this  joint,"  she  laughed. 
"I  see  things  like  that  every  day.  Our  cook  used 
to  make  pancakes  in  the  window.  It  was  pitiful 
to  see  the  people  stand  watching  him  with  their  poor 
mouths  open." 

49 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Her  voice  shook  and  she  suddenly  turned  away. 
As  he  was  leaving  the  restaurant  a  wonderful  sense 
of  peace  and  quiet  was  on  him.  Already  his  new 
life  was  full  of  attractive  novelty.  How  could  he 
account  for  it  logically?  He  was  a  fugitive  from 
law,  without  any  income  to  provide  for  his  needs; 
he  had  renounced  every  tie  of  blood  and  former  as 
sociate;  he  was  a  man  without  a  home,  without 
a  prop  to  lean  upon,  and  yet  an  inexpressible  content 
was  his.  Was  it  due  to  his  disgust  over  his  past 
life  and  the  sense  of  having  put  it  behind  him,  or 
was  it  on  account  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made  for 
his  brother?  He  could  not  have  said. 

Glancing  at  the  card,  he  saw  that  the  rooming- 
house  was  quite  near,  and  he  turned  toward  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  house  was  a  red-brick  building  like  all  the 
others  in  the  block.  The  steps  were  of  the 
conventional  brownstone  with  rusty  iron  railings. 
The  front  door  over  the  basement  entrance  was  open, 
and  he  rang  a  jangling  bell,  the  handle  of  which  was 
so  loose  in  its  socket  that  it  was  drawn  almost  out 
of  place.  While  he  waited  he  looked  into  the  hall. 
It  was  clean,  though  the  carpets  on  the  floor  and 
visible  stairs  were  worn  and  the  massive  hat-rack 
of  walnut  leaned  forward  from  the  wall  as  if  about 
to  fall.  The  basement  door  was  opened  and  a 
portly  woman  with  a  red  face  and  tousled  yellow 
hair  climbed  the  stair  to  the  sidewalk  and  approached 
him. 

"I  understand  you  have  rooms  to  rent,"  Charles 
said. 

The  woman  eyed  him  curiously,  evidently  sur 
prised  at  the  elegance  of  his  clothing  and  the  polite 
ness  of  his  attitude,  for  he  had  taken  off  his  hat  in 
greeting  her. 

"Top  floor  back,  three  a  week;  hallroom  back, 
next  to  it,  two,"  she  answered,  wiping  her  fat  hands 
on  a  white  apron.  "Want  to  see  'em?" 

"If  you  please,"  Charles  said. 

"No  trouble.  That's  what  I'm  here  for,"  she 

51 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

smiled  pleasantly.  She  came  up  the  steps  and  led 
him  into  the  hall.  "Three flights  up,"  she  explained. 
"Will  you  leave  your  bag?  If  you  do  I'll  have  to 
lock  the  door.  Roomers  can't  leave  overcoats  or 
hats  on  the  rack  now.  Thieves  are  as  plentiful  as 
mosquitoes  in  Jersey — some  in  the  house,  as  for 
that.  My  folks  keep  their  rooms  locked." 

"I'll  take  the  bag  up  with  me,"  he  said,  feeling 
that,  no  matter  what  the  rooms  were  like,  he  would 
take  one. 

The  stairs  were  dark.  A  wire  hanging  down  the 
shaft  was  attached  to  a  bell  at  the  top  in  order  that 
it  might  be  rung  from  the  basement  by  the  landlady 
as  a  signal  to  her  few  servants  who  might  be  working 
above  when  needed  below.  Immediately  over  the 
stairs  in  the  roof  was  an  oblong  skylight  of  varie 
gated  glass  through  which  the  tinted  rays  of  sunlight 
came.  The  woman  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
larger  room. 

"The  girl  hasn't  had  a  chance  to  get  at  it  yet," 
she  apologized.  "The  bed  hasn't  been  made  up, 
and  the  man  that  is  in  it  has  left  his  things  lying 
around.  He  is  going  away  this  afternoon.  If  you 
like  the  room  I'll  put  his  things  out.  He  is  unable 
to  pay  and  I  can't  run  my  house  on  nothing." 

Charles  saw  an  open  unpacked  trunk  of  very- 
cheap  quality  in  the  center  of  the  room.  The  sight 
of  the  chamber  in  its  disorder  was  decidedly  un 
pleasant,  and  Charles  did  not  enter  it.  "What  is 
the  other  like?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  the  woman,  and  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  room.  It  was  very  small, 
and  it  had  only  a  single  chair  and  one  window 

52 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

with  a  torn  shade  and  cheap  cotton-lace  curtains. 
The  only  place  to  hang  clothing  was  the  back  of 
the  door,  into  which  hooks  had  been  screwed.  There 
was  a  tiny  wash-stand  with  a  bowl  in  which  a 
pitcher  stood,  and  a  rack  holding  two  thin  cotton 
towels. 

"This  will  do  very  well,"  he  said.  "It  is  large 
enough  for  me.  I  want  to  cut  down  expenses.  I 
am  out  of  work  at  present." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  the  landlady  said,  sympathetically. 
"A  good  many  young  men  are  out  of  work.  That 
is  what  is  the  matter  with  the  fellow  next  door!" 

Charles  paid  for  a  week  in  advance,  and  when  she 
was  about  to  leave  she  said: 

"Is  your  trunk  coming?    If  it  is,  I'll  send  it  up." 

"No,  I  don't  happen  to  have  one,"  he  said,  trying 
to  summon  a  casual  smile. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  avoiding  his  eyes,  "I  make 
a  rule  to  insist  on  that.  I've  had  trouble  with  some 
roomers,  and  it  was  always  them  that  just  had 
hand-baggage." 

"I  can  pay  you  more  in  advance,  if  you  wish," 
he  proposed,  anxiously.  "I  don't  want  you  to  break 
any  rules  on  my  account." 

"Oh,  never  mind!"  she  said.  "I  know  you  are 
all  right.  I'm  a  pretty  good  judge.  The  Lord 
knows  I  see  all  sorts  of  folks  in  my  business,  and  most 
of  them  will  do  me  whenever  they  can.  I've  had 
thugs  and  counterfeiters  in  my  house.  One  man 
that  said  he  was  studying  to  be  a  minister  had  six 
wives  scattered  over  the  country.  They  arrested 
him  one  afternoon  while  I  was  giving  him  a  cup  of 
tea  down-stairs — the  smoothest  talker  that  ever 

53 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

lived,  by  all  odds.  I  missed  some  trinkets,  but, 
being  a  widow,  I  never  mentioned  it  to  the  officers. 
You  see,  it  was  all  in  the  papers  and  anv  little  thing 
like  that  might  have  put  my  name  on  the  list  of  his 
victims;  as  it  was,  the  number  of  my  house  was  all 
that  got  into  print." 

When  she  had  left  him  Charles  closed  the  door 
and  softly  locked  it.  He  sat  down  in  the  chair  and 
leaned  back.  The  little  walled  space  gave  him  an 
odd  sense  of  security.  It  was  his  own,  for  the  time 
being,  at  least.  The  window  was  open  and  a  cooling 
breeze  came  in,  fanning  back  the  white  curtains. 
He  took  out  his  cigarettes  and  began  to  smoke,  and 
as  he  smoked  his  mind  became  very  active  in  deal 
ing  with  recent  events.  Two  marvelous  things  had 
taken  place.  He  was  free  from  future  contact  with 
his  Boston  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  knew  of 
his  recent  escapades  and  their  humiliating  conse 
quences,  and  he  had  released  his  brother  from  con 
ditions  that  were  even  worse.  The  memory  of 
William's  open-mouthed  stare  of  hope  as  he  clutched 
at  life  anew  drenched  his  soul  with  joy  inexpressible. 
What  did  it  matter  that  he  was  never  again  to 
see  William,  or  his  wife  or  child,  or  that  he  was 
never  again  to  walk  the  historic  streets  of  his  native 
city?  What  was  to  become  of  him  he  knew  not. 
Somehow  it  did  not  seem  to  matter.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  existence  life  had  taken  on  a  meaning 
that  was  worth  consideration.  It  meant  that  by 
his  persistent  self-obliteration  another  man  might 
reach  readjustment,  and  a  woman  and  a  child  would 
escape  pain  and  disgrace. 

"Good!  good!"  Charles  exclaimed,  and  slapped 

54 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

his  knee.  ' '  I  haven't  lived  in  vain,  after  all — that  is, " 
was  his  afterthought,  "if  I  am  not  caught;  but  I 
shall  escape.  The  infinite  powers  could  not  will  it 
otherwise.  William  shall  be  a  new  man,  and — why, 
I  am  already  one!  It  is  strange,  but  I  am.  This 
room" — he  swept  the  walls  with  exultant  eyes — 
"seems  as  natural  to  me  as  one  in  a  fashionable 
club  or  hotel.  It  is  all  owing  to  one's  point  of  view. 
I  now  live  on  this  plane,  and  it  is  good.  How  amus 
ing  that  woman  was  just  now!  How  remarkable 
that  I  should  feel  inclined  to  laugh  at  her  drollery! 
Another  week  and  she  would  have  been  the  seventh 
wife.  The  tea  in  the  basement  proves  it.  She  is 
funny.  I  like  her." 

Then  his  facile  mood  changed.  What  was  hap 
pening  at  the  bank  at  that  very  moment?  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  bank 
examiners  were  at  work.  The  discovery  was  made. 
Poor,  crushed  William  at  his  desk  had  only  to  say 
that  the  brother  he  had  trusted  had  fled,  and, 
understanding  all,  they  would  leave  him  alone. 

5 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  nine  o'clock  that  morning  William  Browne 
came  down  to  breakfast.  Celeste  was  already 
in  her  place,  and  smiled  as  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  As  he  drew  out  his  chair  he  noticed  on  his 
plate  the  envelope  in  his  brother's  handwriting.  He 
was  not  expecting  any  communication  from  Charles, 
and  the  sight  of  the  letter  startled  him.  What  could 
it  mean,  his  morbid  fears  suggested,  unless  it  was 
that  Charles  had  changed  his  mind,  after  all,  and 
had  not  left  the  city?  Perhaps  he  was  now  in  his 
room,  sleeping  late,  as  usual.  The  thought  was  un 
bearable,  for  it  brought  back  all  the  terrors  which 
had  beset  him  during  the  weeks  just  past.  He  sat 
down,  and  for  a  moment  let  the  envelope  lie  on  the 
plate  untouched.  Celeste  was  busy  pouring  his  coffee. 

Michael  came  in  bringing  toast.  He  indicated  the 
note  with  a  wave  of  his  pudgy  hand.  ' '  Mr.  Charles 
asked  me  to  hand  it  to  you,"  he  said,  in  a  grave 
tone  which  caught  the  attention  of  Celeste  and 
caused  her  eyes  to  linger  on  his  face  inquiringly. 

"Is  he  coming  down?"  she  asked. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  experience  as  a  family 
servant  Michael  deliberately  decided  not  to  answer. 
He  pretended  not  to  have  heard  and  turned  from 
the  room. 

56 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

William  took  grim  notice  of  the  failure  on  the 
man's  part.  He  tore  off  the  end  of  the  envelope, 
drew  out  the  note,  and  read  it.  A  thrill  of  joyous 
relief  went  over  him.  With  tingling  fingers  he  folded 
it  and  put  it  back  into  the  envelope,  and  then  placed 
it  in  his  pocket.  The  rays  of  the  sun  falling  in  at 
the  window  on  the  plants  and  flowers  held  a  beauty 
he  had  never  seen  before.  Life — life!  After  all,  he 
was  to  live!  Charles  was  gone  and  all  would  yet 
be  well.  His  wife  was  looking  straight  at  him  now. 

"Good  news  of  some  sort,"  she  smiled,  as  she 
spoke. 

"Why,  why  do  you  think  that?"  he  inquired,  his 
beaming  eyes  steadying  into  an  uneasy  stare. 

"Because  I  saw  it  in  your  face  just  then,"  she 
answered.  "But  why  is  he  writing  you  when  he 
could  have  come  down  and  seen  you?  Is — is  he  all 
right?" 

William  wondered  what  he  could  now  say.  Why 
had  it  not  occurred  to  him  that  he  must  be  as  adroit 
in  his  explanations  to  his  wife  as  to  the  bank  ex 
aminers,  the  directors,  the  public  in  general? 

His  brain  seemed  too  heavy  to  deal  adequately 
with  a  situation  so  delicate  and  fraught  with  pit 
falls,  for  Celeste  had  a  subtle  intuition. 

4 '  Yes,  he  is  all  right, ' '  William  said.  ' '  That  is,  he  is 
not — was  not  drinking  yesterday  or  last  evening  when 
I  saw  him  at  the  bank.  In  this  note  he  tells  me 
that  he  has  left  town.  I  don't  think  he  slept  here 
last  night.  Did  he,  Michael?"  The  butler  was  enter 
ing  with  the  eggs  and  bacon.  ' '  Did  my  brother  sleep 
in  his  room  last  night?" 

"I  think  not,  sir,"  Michael  answered,  stiffly, 

57 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

avoiding  the  straight  gaze  of  his  mistress  as  he  put 
the  platter  down  by  his  master.  "At  least  he  was 
not  there  half  an  hour  ago." 

"But  he  gave  you  the  note,"  Celeste  put  in,  in 
sistently. 

"That  was  last  night,"  Michael  said.  "He  gave 
it  to  me  when  he  came  in.  I  was  to  hand  it  to  you, 
sir,  at  breakfast." 

"It  is  all  right,"  William  said,  evasively.  He 
took  up  a  spoon  to  help  himself  to  the  eggs,  but 
awkwardly  dropped  it.  Michael  served  him  with 
steady  hands  and  unruffled  mien.  "Yes,  he  is  all 
right.  He  says  he  wants  to  leave  Boston  for  a 
while.  You  know  he  has  had  some  troubles  of  late." 

"Gone  without  saying  anything  to  me  or  Ruth?" 
Celeste  said,  her  thin  lips  twitching.  "Why,  I  can't 
understand  it !  Is  there  anything  in  the  note  about 
the  length  of  time  he  will  be  away?" 

"I  can't  explain  now,"  William  returned,  frown 
ing  over  his  coffee-cup.  "Perhaps  later  to-day  I 
may  tell  you  more.  I — I  don't  want  to  talk  about 
it  now.  I  have  hard  work  before  me  to-day  at  the 
bank — a  meeting  of  the  directors,  and  other  things 
of  importance." 

Celeste  stared  stolidly.  She  sat  a  moment  erect 
in  her  chair,  then  said,  crisply,  "If  you  will  excuse 
me,  I'll  go  attend  to  Ruth." 

William  half  rose  as  she  got  up,  and  then  with  a 
limp  attitude  of  relief  he  sank  back  into  his  chair. 
He  had  not  touched  his  eggs  and  toast.  He  drank 
his  coffee  rapidly  and  signaled  the  butler  to  fill  his 
cup  again.  ' '  Strong, ' '  he  said ;  "  no  cream  or  sugar. ' ' 

' '  Very  well,  sir. ' '  Michael  obeyed  with  sympathetic 

58 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

deliberation.  He  evidently  wanted  to  talk  to  his 
master  about  his  brother,  but  he  could  find  no 
plausible  excuse  for  so  doing.  William  bolted  a  few 
mouthfuls  of  the  food  on  his  plate,  finished  his  third 
cup  of  coffee,  and  rose. 

"I  shall  not  be  here  to  lunch,"  he  said.  "We'll 
have  something  served  in  the  bank." 

"Very  well,  sir."  Michael  drew  his  chair  back 
and  bowed  as  his  master  left  the  room. 

William  was  getting  his  hat  from  the  rack  in  the 
hall  when  Celeste  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
"Do  you  want  to  see  Ruth  before  you  go?"  she 
called  down.  "She  is  awake,  but  not  quite  dressed." 

"Not  now,  dear.  I  am  in  an  awful  hurry,"  he 
said,  impatiently.  "I  have  no  time  to  lose." 

"Very  well,"  Celeste  coldly  replied,  and  disap 
peared. 

Outside  the  sun  was  shining  brightly;  the  air 
was  invigorating  with  its  bare  hint  of  dewiness  on 
the  trees  and  sward  of  the  Common  which  he  was 
crossing.  A  wondrous  haze  draped  the  Public  Gar 
dens  some  distance  away  on  his  right.  On  his  left, 
the  golden  dome  of  the  State  House  blazed  under 
its  reflected  fire.  The  city's  dull  hum  fell  upon  his 
ears,  punctuated  by  the  far-off  peal  of  a  bell. 

Was  Charles  safely  away?  he  asked  himself.  If 
only  he  had  one  more  day  between  him  and  dis 
covery  how  much  better  it  would  be !  But  that  was 
out  of  the  question.  The  thing  that  was  to  be  done 
must  be  done  at  once.  After  all,  what  was  there  so 
terrible  about  it?  Charles  would  make  his  way  in 
some  fashion,  and  the  family  disgrace  would  be 
avoided.  Suicide?  Nothing  could  be  worse  than 

59 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

suicide.  Ah,  but  Charles  might  be  followed  and  de 
tained!  In  that  case  he  would  be  put  on  trial  for 
the  crime,  and  of  course  he  could  no  longer  play  the 
part  he  had  undertaken.  Then  it  would  be  suicide 
for  himself;  yes,  suicide  was  even  yet  a  possible  con 
tingent.  He  shuddered;  the  sunlight  lost  its  charm, 
the  air  its  bracing  quality.  He  plunged  on  now, 
glancing  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  his 
step  was  heavy  as  he  entered  the  bank.  It  was 
open  for  business,  and  very  active  in  the  counting- 
rooms.  Typewriting  and  adding  machines  were 
clicking.  In  the  office  of  the  president,  a  raised 
voice  could  be  heard  dictating  a  letter  in  studied 
paragraphs.  William  hung  up  his  hat  in  the  little 
anteroom  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  Automatically 
he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  note  Charles  had  writ 
ten.  He  understood  the  afterthought  which  had 
inspired  its  writing,  but  he  shrank  from  availing 
himself  of  it.  He  must  appear  to  be  busy,  he  told 
himself,  and  yet  what  could  be  done  by  a  man  in 
his  state  of  suspense  ?  Could  one  dictate  a  letter  or 
add  a  column  of  figures  while  momentarily  expecting 
the  verdict  of  a  jury  as  to  whether  he  should  live 
or  die?  The  bank  examiners  would  soon  come. 
The  ordeal  of  meeting  their  experienced  scrutiny 
would  be  impossible  in  his  present  state  of  mind. 
How  could  he  escape  it?  The  note!  Ah  yes,  the 
note!  With  the  revelation  once  made  to  the  presi 
dent,  his  privacy  would  be  respected.  It  was  a 
terrible  thing  for  a  brother  to  do,  but  as  a  matter  of 
sheer  self-preservation,  it  had  to  be  done.  The 
dictating  in  the  president's  office  had  ceased.  The 
girl  stenographer,  with  her  notes  in  hand,  was  hurry- 

60 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ing  past  his  open  door.  Now  was  the  time,  but  he 
must  first  set  the  scene  for  the  drama.  He  got  up, 
went  to  the  vault,  drew  open  the  massive  door,, 
busied  his  distraught  brain  over  a  combination,, 
opened  an  inner  safe.  He  remained  there  for  a 
moment  and  then  came  out.  A  clerk  glanced  up 
from  a  big  book  of  commercial  reports,  bowed  re 
spectfully,  and  then  stared  almost  in  alarm  at  his 
superior. 

' '  My  God !"  he  heard  the  banker  say.   ' '  My  God '" 

With  Charles's  note  in  his  hand  William  moved 
on  to  the  office  of  the  president.  The  door  was 
partially  open.  He  pushed  it  aside  and  entered. 
A  heavy-set  gentleman  past  sixty  years  of  age,  with 
a  reddish  face  and  iron-gray  hair,  raised  a  pair  of 
frank  blue  eyes.  ' '  Well,  Browne,  we've  got  to  show  a 
clean  record  to-day,"  he  began,  jestingly.  "This  fel 
low  McCurdy  thinks  he  is  a  regular  Sherlock  Holmes. 
You  know  he  was  the  slick  chap  that  exposed — " 
He  suddenly  checked  himself.  The  jovial  smile 
left  his  facile  mouth,  for  William  was  now  in  the 
full  light  of  the  electric  lamp  on  the  desk. 

"I  have  bad  news,  Bradford,"  William  gulpedt 
putting  his  bloodless  hand  on  the  roll- top  of  the 
mahogany  desk,  the  hand  clutching  his  brother's 
note. 

"Bad  news?"  Bradford  repeated,  in  slow  amaze 
ment.  "Why,  what's  happened?  You  look — 
look—" 

"The  safe  has  been  robbed!"  William's  words 
tripped  over  one  another,  as  they  tumbled  from  his 
pallid  lips.  "I  found  this  note,  and  went  to  see  if 
— if  what  it  says  could  be  true.  See!  Look!" 

61 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

William  spread  out  the  crumpled  note,  and  laid 
it  before  Bradford's  widening  eyes,  and  then  stepped 
back  and  stood  still  and  silent  behind  him.  There 
was  only  a  moment's  pause.  Bradford  whirled 
around  in  his  revolving-chair. 

"My  God!"  he  cried.  "Your  brother!  I  was 
afraid  something  might  go  wrong.  Several  of  us 
were;  but  on  your  account — " 

"I  understand,"  William  leaned  forward.  There 
was  almost  unexpected  support  in  the  president's 
tone  and  phrasing,  laden  as  it  was  with  sympathy. 
"I  have  made  a  great,  great  mistake,  Bradford,  and 
I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  up  for  it.  In  a 
short  while  —  a  month,  six  weeks  —  I  can  replace 
that  money  out  of  my  own  funds,  and  I  want  to 
do  it — I  must  do  it.  I  want  the  directors  and  you 
to  understand  that.  Will  you  tell  them?  Will  you 
do  that  for  me?  The  money  is  almost  in  sight.  I'm 
sure  it  is  coming.  I  only  need  a  little  time." 

"That  will  be  considered  later."  Bradford  stood 
up.  His  hand  was  extended  to  the  limp  man  before 
him.  "I  sympathize  with  you,  Browne.  I  have 
been  sorry  for  you  all  along  on  account  of  your 
brother's  conduct,  and  of  course  I  am  more  so  now. 
You  need  not  fear  that  the  matter  will  impair  your 
own  standing  with  us.  The  fact  that  you  propose 
to  return  the  money  is  sufficient  proof  of  your  per 
sonal  integrity.  Now — now,  leave  everything  to 
me.  You  are  in  no  shape  for  business.  Why,  you 
have  gone  all  to  pieces!  Leave  it  all  to  me.  If  I 
were  you  I'd  go  home.  This  will  create  a  sensation 
— it  can't  be  avoided — and  why  should  you  be  in 
the  midst  of  it?" 

62 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

William  heard  himself  muttering  subdued  words 
of  thanks.  He  felt  his  hand  warmly  pressed;  the 
arm  of  a  friend  and  old  associate  was  around  his 
shoulders  as  he  turned  away. 

Reaching  his  office,  William  entered,  closed  the 
door,  and  sat  down  at  his  desk,  his  fixed  stare  on 
the  large,  spotless  green  blotting-pad.  What  ailed 
him?  Why  was  he  so  filled  with  excruciating  agony  ? 
A  better  way  of  escape  than  he  had  hoped  for  had 
opened  out  before  him.  The  bank  examiners,  the 
directors,  the  depositors  would  respect  his  feelings 
and  think  nothing  prejudicial  to  him  for  absenting 
himself  from  the  scene.  They  would  regard  him 
as  a  well-meaning  man  impoverished  by  the  irre 
sponsible  acts  of  a  drunkard  relative.  If  anything, 
their  respect  would  be  heightened  by  his  generous 
offer  of  reimbursement.  He  told  all  this  to  his  be 
numbed  consciousness,  but  it  failed  to  revivify  the 
soul  within  him. 

"Sixty  thousand  dollars!"  It  was  a  voice  from 
a  telephone-booth  near  by,  a  voice  unwittingly 
raised  too  high,  through  excitement.  It  was  Brad 
ford  speaking  to  one  of  the  directors  at  his  suburban 
home. 

"Yes,  Davis,  you  must  hurry  in.  We'll  wait  for 
you."  Here  some  words  became  indistinct  in  the 
tread  of  hurried  feet  in  the  counting-room  and  cor 
ridors,  then:  "Oh  yes,  poor  fellow!  he  is  all  broken 
up  over  it.  Surprised  him  like  all  the  rest.  I  must 
say  I  didn't  think  it  of  Charlie.  I  loved  the  boy, 
in  a  way,  but  I  presume  he  got  entangled  in  some — 
Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  It  will  get  the  best 
of  'em  down  sooner  or  later.  Yes.  All  right.  Good- 

63 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

by.  Oh,  say,  hurry  in.  We  must  decide  what  we 
are  going  to  do  about  the  police.  We  must  be  quick 
about  that.  Unpleasant  as  it  will  be  for  Browne, 
the  boy  must  be  caught.  At  least  that  is  my  opin 
ion,  and  I  think  we  ought  to  offer  a  reward.  Think 
it  over  and  hurry  in.  We  need  you.  Good-by." 

William,  his  stare  still  on  the  green  pad  before 
him,  heard  Bradford  closing  the  door  of  the  booth. 
He  recognized  the  voice  of  one  of  the  directors  who 
had  just  come  in  and  had  met  the  president  in  the 
corridor. 

"It  has  taken  me  off  my  feet,"  the  man  said, 
angrily.  "What  a  bunch  of  fools  we  were!  The 
young  villain !  What  other  bank  would  have  allowed 
him  to  be  around,  after — " 

"'Sh!"  Through  the  very  walls  and  closed  door 
William  saw  the  president's  considerate  thumb 
jerked  in  his  direction.  "'Sh!  He'll  hear.  There'll 
be  no  permanent  loss  to  us,  you  know.  The  news 
papers  must  put  that  in.  It  will  prevent  a  run  on 
us.  McCurdy  is  in  my  office.  We'll  get  together 
soon." 

Their  voices  died  down.  The  telephone-bells  were 
jingling  from  all  directions. 

"Is  that  police  headquarters?    Well,  this  is — 

William  would  have  stood  up,  his  ear  to  the  door, 
had  he  not  known  so  well  all  that  was  flying  over 
the  wires.  The  clerk  at  the  'phone  in  the  nearest 
booth  was  now  in  communication  with  the  editorial 
office  of  a  leading  daily. 

"Yes,  you  can  send  him  around,"  the  clerk  said. 
"Til  tell  him  all  I  know  about  it." 

William  clasped  his  hands  between  his  gaunt 

64 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

knees.  He  had  once  deliberately  planned  suicide 
to  avoid  facing  his  accusers.  Yet  now,  with  safety 
in  his  grasp,  how  could  he  face  the  defamers  of  his 
innocent  brother?  Strange,  but  this  was  agony- 
even  greater  agony  than  the  other  situation.  Ke 
told  himself  that  he  must  get  away  from  it,  for  the 
moment,  anyway.  Bradford  had  suggested  a  loop 
hole.  No  man  of  refinement  would  want  to  be 
present  during  the  investigation  of  his  own  brother's. 
ill  conduct.  No,  he  would  go  out,  home,  for  a  walk 
— somewhere,  anywhere.  He  had  leit  Charles's 
note  with  Bradford.  That  was  sufficient  in  all 
reason  to  absolve  William  from  any  suspicion  what 
ever.  Yes,  he  would  go.  There  were  situations 
under  which  a  man's  leaving  such  a  scene  would 
suggest  complicity,  but  this  would  imply  naught, 
else  than  broken-hearted  innocence  burdened  be 
yond  physical  endurance.  Taking  his  hat,  he  went 
out  into  the  street.  As  he  passed  the  main  counting- 
room  many  eyes  were  lifted  from  ponderous  tomes 
and  machines.  Curiosity  and  sympathy  combined 
were  in  the  awed  and  stealthy  glances.  Outside, 
at  the  door,  a  group  had  gathered.  It  was  as  if 
a  telepathic  sense  of  the  tragedy  within  had  per 
meated  the  walls. 

"There  he  goes!  That's  his  brother!"  reached 
William's  ears  as  he  elbowed  his  way  to  the  pave 
ment.  "Hey!  there  comes  the  chief  of  police!"  the, 
same  voice  said.  "Quick  action,  if  he  is  fat,  eh?" 

William  did  not  care  to  see  the  official  in  question 
even  at  a  distance.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground 
and  hurried  away.  Home?  he  asked  himself.  No, 
not  now — not  now.  Celeste  would  wonder.  She 

65 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

would  have  to  be  told,  and  how  could  he  tell  her 
the  thing  that  his  reason  assured  him  she  would 
never  believe?  A  woman's  intuition!  Ah,  it  was 
to  be  dreaded!  It  did  not  lend  itself  readily  to 
practical  subterfuge.  Business  men,  bank  exami 
ners,  skilled  detectives  would  be  led  by  mere  physical 
evidence — a  man's  written  confession,  his  open  flight, 
his  reckless  past  and  inebriety,  but  a  woman's  faith 
was  too  deep  and  well-informed  for  that.  What  was 
to  be  done — what?  He  crossed  the  Common;  he 
plunged  into  the  Public  Gardens;  he  strode  through 
into  Commonwealth  Avenue,  and  on  and  on.  He 
knew  not  where  he  was  going  or  with  what  object 
in  view,  but  he  must  keep  in  motion.  He  wanted 
to  put  a  certain  thing  behind  him,  but  that  thing 
was  in  his  brain  and  it  was  producing  a  thousand 
pictures — pictures  of  his  boyhood  with  Charles  as 
a  toddling  infant  beside  him;  of  his  later  young 
manhood  with  Charles,  a  careless  school-boy  shirk 
ing  his  studies  for  open-air  sport;  Charles  as  he 
entered  the  bank  under  his  protection;  Charles  in 
the  beginning  of  his  reckless  career;  Charles  as  he 
had  last  seen  him,  drawing  the  accumulated  burthen 
of  another  man's  folly  upon  his  sturdy,  repentant 
shoulders.  Great  God!  How  could  he  go  through 
with  it?  And  yet  it  must  be  done.  The  terrible 
game  must  be  played  to  a  finish.  After  all,  was  the 
whole  thing  not  right?  Through  this  sacrifice  were 
not  a  good  woman  and  a  helpless  child  escaping 
shame  and  misery?  True,  he  had  made  a  misstep, 
but  so  had  Charles.  It  would  be  comforting  to 
know  that,  in  a  sense,  he  and  Charles  were  on  a 
sort  of  level.  Ah,  but  they  were  not — they  were 

66 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

not!  Pragmatically  tested,  they  were  different. 
Charles  was  now  living  in  the  joyful  consciousness 
that  a  great  good  was  to  come  out  of  his  self-renun 
ciation;  but  it  was  vastly  different  with  the  man 
for  whom  the  renunciation  had  been  made.  William 
had  never  loved  his  brother  so  much  as  now.  He 
had  never  before  been  capable  of  such  a  love.  From 
the  depths  of  the  pit  into  which  he  had  fallen  Charles 
appeared  as  a  far-off  superman.  William  might 
have  wept,  but  men  do  not  weep  while  in  terror, 
and  William  was  afraid.  After  all,  he  asked  him 
self,  with  a  start,  how  could  he  be  sure  that  his 
secret  transactions  in  stocks  might  not  be  ferreted 
out  by  this  same  McCurdy,  or  some  one  else  ?  These 
facts  brought  to  light  and  the  authorities  would 
readily  see  through  the  thin  ruse  that  was  being 
perpetrated. 

For  more  than  two  hours  he  walked,  here  and 
there.  He  crossed  the  bridge  to  Cambridge.  His 
dull  stare  swept  the  various  college  buildings  and 
stately  clubs,  but  they  only  reminded  him  of  Charles 
and  what  Charles  was  doing  for  him.  Why,  the 
day  Charles  was  graduated  his  friends  had  honored 
him  with —  But  why  think  of  trivialities?  Perhaps 
at  the  bank  some  further  discovery  was  being  made. 
Had  he  covered  his  tracks  completely?  How  could 
he  tell?  He  turned  abruptly  homeward.  He  would 
plead  a  headache;  he  would  shut  himself  in  his 
room;  he  would  explain  nothing  to  Celeste.  She 
would  wonder,  but  the  newspapers  would  tell  her  all. 


CHAPTER  X 

ALONE  in  his  little  room,  Charles  became  con- 
••**•  scious  of  a  vast  sense  of  fatigue,  induced,  no 
doubt,  by  the  fact  that  his  fears  concerning  his 
brother's  fate  were  now  allayed.  Removing  his 
coat  and  shoes,  he  threw  himself  on  the  hard,  narrow 
bed  and  was  soon  soundly  asleep.  He  did  not 
awaken  till  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  might 
have  slept  longer  but  for  the  harsh  sound  of  a  truck 
delivering  coal  through  a  sheet-iron  chute  into  the 
basement  of  a  house  next  door.  He  lay  for  several 
minutes  trying  to  recall  some  vaguely  delectable 
and  flitting  dreams  he  had  just  been  enjoying. 
Somehow,  by  sheer  contrast  to  their  evanescent 
quality,  the  sordid  little  room  and  its  meager  fur 
nishings  produced  a  depression  that  had  not  come 
to  him  since  the  beginning  of  his  flight.  His  thoughts 
were  on  his  home,  and  he  was  all  but  faint  under 
the  sharp  realization  that  it  was  his  home  no 
longer. 

Presently  he  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs.  It  was 
a  slow,  discouraged  one,  and  the  man  who  made  it 
opened  the  room  adjoining  his  and  went  in,  leaving 
the  door  open.  Feeling  the  need  of  fresh  air,  Charles 
got  up  and  opened  his  own  door.  And  as  he  did 
so  he  saw  the  inmate  of  the  other  room  standing 

68 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

over  the  open  trunk.  To  his  surprise  he  recognized 
him  as  the  man  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at 
the  restaurant.  Their  eyes  met. 

"I  see  you  got  fixed,"  the  stranger  said,  with  a 
smile  that  seemed  forced.  "Well,  you  will  like  it, 
all  right,  I  think.  As  for  me,  I'm  bounced.  I've 
had  my  walking-papers.  Mrs.  Reilly  is  a  good  soul, 
but  she  has  to  live,  and  I  don't  blame  her.  Do  you 
know,  she  was  awfully  good  about  it — tried  to  let 
me  down  easy,  says  I  can  take  my  trunk  and  all 
that,  and  forget  what  I  owe  her.  Take  my  trunk! 
Huh!  as  if  I'd  carry  it  out  on  my  shoulder,  which 
I'd  have  to  do  or  cheat  the  expressman  out  of  his 
dues." 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  going,"  Charles  said.  "I  wish 
we  could  be  neighbors." 

"Well,  so  am  I,"  the  other  responded,  listlessly, 
"but  we  can't  have  everything  our  way.  After  all, 
the  sleeping  is  good  in  the  parks  such  weather  as 
this.  I've  done  it,  and  I  can  do  it  again,  but  I 
sha'n't  need  a  trunk.  I'll  leave  it.  And  I'll  pay 
Mrs.  Reilly  some  day.  I've  always  paid  my  way." 

Some  one  was  coming.  It  was  the  landlady  her 
self.  Her  face  was  very  grave  and  full  of  feeling. 
She  seemed  slightly  surprised  at  finding  the  two  men 
together.  Charles  explained  how  they  had  met  at 
breakfast. 

"And  he  sent  you  to  me?"  she  said.  "He  recom 
mended  me?" 

"Yes,  that  is  how  I  got  the  address,"  Charles 
returned. 

She  turned  on  the  young  man  suddenly.  She  was 
trying  to  smile,  though  her  face  was  full  of  con- 

69 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

tradictory  emotions.  "Mr.  Mason,"  she  faltered, 
as  she  touched  him  on  his  arm,  "  I  must  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  I'll  do  it  right  here,  facing  this  gentleman. 
I  hardly  slept  a  wink  last  night,  tired  as  I  was  from 
house-cleaning  and  beating  carpets,  because  I  said 
what  I  did  yesterday  about  you  leaving.  And  now 
I  hear  in  this  roundabout  way  that  you  have  been 
trying  to  help  me.  Humph!"  she  laughed,  making 
a  sound  in  her  throat  like  a  suppressed  sob,  "do 
you  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  go?  Not  on  your 
life.  I've  never  had  a  young  man  under  my  roof 
that  I  liked  better.  I'd  rather  keep  you  here  for 
nothing  than  to  get  money  for  the  room  from  come 
of  the  scamps  that  are  floating  about." 

"You  are  very  good,  Mrs.  Reilly,"  Mason  said, 
with  emotion  on  his  part,  "but  I  don't  thinl ,  owing 
you  for  three  weeks  already,  that — " 

"Three  weeks  nothing!  Cut  that  out!"  she  ex 
claimed.  She  strode  to  a  window  and  examined 
the  tattered  shade.  "There  is  no  demand  for  rooms 
now,  anyway.  Do  you  hear  me,  you  are  going  to 
stay?  I've  got  to  have  new  shades  here,  that's  all 
there  is  about  it.  Yes,  I  want  you  to  stay,  Mr. 
Mason,  and  that  settles  it.  You  will  find  work,  I'm 
sure  of  it.  It  is  a  dull  season,  that's  all.  Business 
will  pick  up  later.  It  always  does." 

Mason  was  blandly  protesting,  his  color  high  in 
his  cheeks,  when  she  suddenly  whirled  from  the  room. 

"You  are  to  stay!"  she  called  back  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  "You  talk  to  him,  sir,"  she  added  to 
Charles.  "He  is  a  nice  young  man  and  needs  a 
home  of  some  sort." 

The  situation  being  embarrassing,  Charles  went 

70 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

into  his  own  room.     Mason,  now  without  his  coat 
and  his  shirt-collar  open,  stalked  in  after  him. 

"Sorry  you  had  to  hear  all  that,"  he  said  with 
wincing,  tight-drawn  lips.  "Great  God !  do  you  know, 
sir,  that  the  hardest  thing  on  earth  for  an  able- 
bodied  man  to  do  is  to  receive  help  from  a  working- 
woman?  God!  it  stings  like  fire — it  kills  me!" 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Charles  answered.  "Your  feeling 
is  natural  to  your  particular  temperament.  In  your 
case  you'd  better  owe  it  to  a  man.  I  want  to  be 
frank  with  you,  Mr.  Mason.  You  can  do  me  a 
favor.  I  have  the  money  to  spare,  and  I  want  you 
to  let  me  advance  it  for  you." 

"You?  You?  Great  God!  man,  you  are  not  in 
earnest!  You  don't  mean  it !" 

"But  I  do,"  Charles  said,  firmly.  "It  is  selfish 
on  my  part,  too,  for  I -don't  want  you  to  go  away. 
I'm  a  stranger  here  and  I'm  lonely.  I'm  out  of 
work  myself;  I  want  your  companionship ;  strangers 
though  we  are  to  each  other,  I  feel  as  if  we  were 
old  friends.  I  can't  tell  why  this  is,  but  I  do." 

"I  know,  I  guess,"  said  the  astounded  man  as 
he  sank  into  the  chair  near  the  window.  "I  suppose 
we  are  both  troubled  to  some  extent.  I  thought  you 
looked  bothered  a  little  at  breakfast  this  morning. 
I'd  like  to  be  with  you,  too,  but  I  couldn't  start 
out  in  any  stranger's  debt  like  that,  you  know. 
It  is — is  almost  as  bad,  you  see,  as  owing  a  woman." 

"You  mustn't  feel  as  you  do  in  regard  to  me,  at 
least,"  Charles  said.  "I  am  without  a  home.  I 
don't  want  to  be  alone.  I  would  love  to  share  the 
little  I  have  with  yo*u.  Something  draws  me  to  you 
like  ties  of  blood." 
6  71 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

It  was  significant  that  Mason  made  no  reply. 
He  leaned  forward,  clasping  his  big  freckled  hands 
between  his  knees.  He  dropped  his  head,  his 
reddish-brown  curls  lopped  over  his  wide  brow.  He 
was  silent.  Charles  saw  his  shoulders  rise  and  fall 
convulsively,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  suppress  a 
tumult  of  feeling.  Presently  he  raised  his  head. 
His  hunger-pinched  lips  were  twisted  awry. 

"My  God!"  he  gulped,  "I  didn't  know  I'd  ever 
run  across  a  fellow  like  you.  I  thank  you !  I  thank 
you!  I  thank  you!"  He  got  up;  his  knees,  in  his 
frayed,  bulging  trousers,  shook  visibly.  He  moved 
to  the  door,  passed  through  it,  and  went  into  his 
own  room.  From  his  position  near  the  door  Charles 
saw  him  reel  past  the  trunk,  totter,  and  clutch  a 
post  of  the  old-fashioned  bed.  Holding  it,  he  stood 
swaying  back  and  forth,  his  head  hanging  low  on  a 
limp  neck.  Charles  ran  to  him,  caught  his  arm,  and 
made  him  lie  down  on  the  bed.  Mason  was  ghastly 
pale. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile  carelessly. 
"It  will  pass  over.  I  had  it  once  yesterday  in  the 
street." 

"I  know  what  it  is."  Charles  bent  over  him 
tenderly,  "You  are  weak  from  hunger." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  it?"  Mason  asked,  resign 
edly,  doggedly. 

"Yes,  and  it  has  to  end  right  here  and  now.  We 
are  friends,  aren't  we?  I'm  going  down  and  bring 
you  something  this  minute.  It  is  not  a  woman  that 
is  offering  it,  Mason.  It  is  a  friend  who  knows  what 
suffering  is.  Wait!  Lie  still.  I'll  hurry  back." 

From  the  restaurant  where  he  had  breakfacted 

72 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

that  morning  Charles  secured  some  hot  chicken 
broth  with  bread  and  coffee.  As  he  was  hurrying 
back,  he  met  a  newsboy  selling  afternoon  papers. 
The  thought  darted  through  his  brain  that  the 
papers  might  contain  an  account  of  his  flight  which 
had  been  telegraphed  from  Boston,  and  he  bought  a 
paper  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  He  met  Mrs. 
Reilly  as  he  was  entering  the  front  door.  Hurriedly 
he  explained  the  reason  for  his  bringing  the  food. 

' '  Good  gracious !"  she  cried.  ' '  I  thought  he  looked 
bad.  One  of  my  roomers  said  it  was  dope,  but  I 
didn't  believe  him.  And  I  was  turning  him  out  in 
that  condition!  Think  of  it — just  think  of  it!" 

"I  am  to  pay  the  back  rent  he  owes,  Mrs.  Reilly/' 
Charles  said,  putting  the  things  down  on  a  step  of 
the  chair  and  taking  out  his  purse. 

"You?  Not  on  your  life!"  she  threw  back, 
warmly.  "Do  you  think  I'll  let  a  stranger  come  and 
do  more  for  that  poor  boy  than  I've  done,  when  h2 
was  going  about  drumming  up  trade  for  me  alter 
what  I  said  to  him?  Not  on  your  life !  I'll  feed  him, 
too,  from  this  on.  I'll  bring  him  his  breakfast  if 
he  ain't  able  to  come  down  in  the  morning." 

Seeing  that  she  would  not  receive  the  mcney, 
Charles  took  up  the  things  and  ascended  the  stairs. 
He  found  Mason  seated  at  the  window  in  the  cooling 
breeze  from  the  open  space  in  the  rear. 

His  eyes  held  the  eager  gleam  of  a  starvi1:  g  man 
shipwrecked  on  a  raft.  He  tried  to  make  light  of  his 
hunger  as  Charles  hurriedly  placed  a  small  table 
near  him  and  filled  a  soup-plate  with  the  r'ch  broth, 
which  contained  tender  fragments  of  chicken. 

"Here,  tackle  this,  you  chump!"  said  Charles, 

73 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  he  laughed  as  he  used  to  laugh  in  his  school-days. 
"The  idea  of  your  letting  yourself  starve  in  this 
great,  enlightened,  Christian  city!" 

Mason  obeyed.  A  warm  look  of  reviving  health 
was  in  his  face  as  he  drank  the  soup.  The  plate  was 
soon  empty.  Charles  filled  it  again,  and  poured  out 
the  hot  coffee.  As  he  did  so  he  felt  the  folded  news 
paper  in  his  pocket,  and  a  sudden  cool  shock  of  dis 
may  went  through  him.  What  might  not  the  paper 
say?  Some  one  might  have  seen  him  take  the  train 
in  Boston.  Some  one  might  have  watched  him  on 
his  arrival  in  New  York.  The  very  house  he  was 
in  might  already  be  shadowed  by  instructed  officials. 
Men  nowadays  were  captured  easily  enough  in  the 
vast  network  of  the  detective  system. 

As  he  crumbled  his  bread  into  the  broth  Mason's 
satisfied  glance  swept  the  face  of  his  companion. 
"What  are  you  worried  about?"  he  asked.  "I  saw 
you  change  all  at  once  like  you  was  thinking  of 
something  unpleasant.  I  hope  it  ain't  me.  My 
God!  I  don't  want  to  be  a  burden  on  a  man  as 
kind  as  you  are!" 

"You?  No,  no!  But  I  have  my  little  troubles, 
Mason,"  Charles  admitted,  frankly.  "I  try  to  keep 
my  mind  off  of  them,  but  they  will  sneak  back  at 
times.  Don't  think  it  is  money;  it  is  not  that,  and 
instead  of  being  a  burden  you  are  just  the  reverse. 
You  are  a  great  help  to  me." 

"I'm  sorry  you  have  worries,"  Mason  responded, 
with  a  sigh.  "But  it  seems  to  me  that  every  one  I 
meet  has  some  trouble  or  other.  The  thing  has  its 
funny  side,  too.  I  could  dance  and  sing  with  this 
feed  in  me,  thanks  to  you.  This  morning,  after  I 

74 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

left  you,  I  went  looking  for  a  job,  as  usual.  I  had 
failed  to  see  the  firms  I  had  in  view  in  Wall  Street, 
and  was  standing  in  front  of  an  old  church  down 
there  when  a  shabbily  dressed  man  with  a  red  nose 
came  up  to  me. 

"'Say,  boss,'  he  began,  'can  you  give  a  feller  a 
dime  to  pay  his  carfare  home?  I'm  stranded  here 
and  got  to  get  back.' 

"It  struck  me  as  funny — his  wanting  money  to 
get  booze  with,  and  me  without  bread,  and  I  laughed 
in  his  face.  'Say,'  I  said,  'I  was  about  to  ask  you 
the  same  question,  but  I've  never  begged  in  my 
life,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  go  about  it.' 

"'Oh,  is  that  it?  New  hand,  eh?'  he  said,  very 
cordially.  'Well,  young  feller,  I  don't  mind  giving 
you  a  tip  or  two  to  start  you  out.  I  was  green  at 
it  once  myself.  Now,  look  here.  You  are  too  timid. 
Brace  up.  Nothing  ventured,  nothing  gained.  Pick 
'em  out  as  they  come  along.  Take  the  best-dressed 
first.  Learn  to  know  the  labels  on  cigars  and  make 
a  break  for  the  costly  smokers.  If  you  see  a  feller 
smiling,  he's  your  game.  If  you  see  two  prosperous- 
looking  guys  chatting  in  a  friendly  way,  strike  'em 
both.  One  will  try^to  outdo  the  other.  I  won  a 
dollar  in  a  game  like  that  once  out  of  two  fellers 
getting  in  a  fine  auto.  Women  are  all  right,  too, 
but  when  you  see  one  coming  you'd  better  just 
hang  your  head  and  look  sadlike,  especially  if  you 
are  at  the  lead-pencil  game.' 

"I  thanked  him,"  Mason  finished,  "but  I  never 
profited  by  his  advice.  I  simply  can't  beg.  Say, 
is  that  an  afternoon  paper  in  your  pocket  ?  I  wonder 
if  it  carries  want  ads?" 

75 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  don't  really  know,"  Charles  replied,  drawing 
the  paper  out  slowly  and  awkwardly,  for  in  some 
way  it  seemed  to  cling  to  his  pocket  and  his  fingers 
were  not  apt  as  usual.  He  spread  it  out,  and  as  he 
held  it  toward  his  companion  some  large  head-lines 
on  the  first  page  caught  his  attention  and  a  cold 
wave  of  despair  swept  over  him. 

"Robbery  of  a  Boston  Bank!  Absconding  Clerk 
Makes  Away  with  Sixty  Thousand  Dollars  Ten 
Thousand  Dollars  Reward  Offered!" 

Mason  was  taking  the  paper  into  his  extended 
hand.  It  seemed  to  Charles  as  if  the  dismal  room 
were  enveloped  in  a  mist.  He  heard  Mason  saying 
something  as  if  from  a  great  height  or  depth  as  he 
opened  the  rustling  sheet. 

"Excuse  me,"  Charles  managed  to  say.  "I'll 
come  back  in  a  moment." 

Mason  made  some  reply  which  he  did  not  hear, 
and  Charles  went  into  his  own  room,  where  he  stood 
at  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  back  yards 
below.  Why,  he  asked  himself,  was  he  so  terribly 
alarmed  all  at  once  ?  Was  not  all  this  to  be  expected  ? 
To  do  him  full  credit,  he  was  not  even  then  thinking 
of  himself.  It  was  William.  It  was  Celeste.  It  was 
little  Ruth.  They  were  first  in  his  thoughts.  Ah, 
after  all,  was  his  vicarious  effort  at  rescue  to  fail 
totally?  He  stood  at  the  window  a  long  time,  lost 
in  a  flood  of  reflections.  It  was  now  sundown. 
Lights  in  the  rear  rooms  of  the  buildings  across  the 
court  were  flashing  up.  He  heard  a  match  being 
struck  in  Mason's  room  and  the  rustling  of  the  tell 
tale  paper.  He  crept  to  the  door,  glanced  in,  and 
saw  his  new  friend  standing  under  a  flaring  gas-jet, 

76 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

with  the  first  page  of  the  paper  before  his  eyes. 
Was  he  reading  the  Boston  news  ?  Would  he  couple 
his  new  friend's  arrival  on  that  particular  train  with 
the  events  described?  Well,  what  did  it  matter? 
Something  told  him  that  even  were  he  a  murderer 
his  secret  would  be  safe  with  Mason;  and  yet,  if 
possible  to  avoid  it,  Mason  must  not  know,  for 
Charles  had  promised  his  brother  that  no  circum 
stances  should  wring  the  truth  from  him.  Mason 
remained  at  the  jet,  reading  as  if  wholly  absorbed. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  now  that  it  was  the  Boston 
report  that  had  caught  his  attention. 

Suddenly,  while  he  watched  him,  Mason  lowered 
the  paper,  and  Charles  had  barely  time  to  step 
back  to  the  window  before  Mason  was  on  the  thresh 
old,  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  staring  through  the  dusk 
at  Charles,  "I  did  not  mean  to  take  your  paper 
from  you.  I  was  expecting  you  back  every  minute 
and  got  to  reading  about — about" — there  was  a 
slight  pause  here  as  it  seemed  to  Charles's  over 
wrought  fancy — "  about  a  poor  chap  in  Boston  who 
got  away  with  a  pile  of  boodle.  It  is  interesting, 
the  whole  tale.  Booze,  booze!  The  old,  old  story 
— secret  speculations,  and  women.  Family  broken 
hearted.  Went  back  on  his  best  friend,  his  only 
brother,  who  stands  at  the  top  socially.  Gosh! 
I've  been  reckless  myself,  but  not  like  that,  thank 
God!  I've  been  my  own  worst  enemy,  but  I  never 
hurt  my  people  like  that.  I'm  sorry  for  the  poor 
devil!  I  really  am  sorry!  This  paper  speaks  of  the 
chap  as  having  had  lots  of  friends  before  he  got  to 
the  bottom,,,  ..^Rhey  are  usually  like  that,  free  and 


TH1?    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

easy  and  kind-hearted.  Oh,  I  guess  he  was  tempted, 
poor  devil!  And  he  will  be  caught,  they  think. 
Left  for  New  York  last  night  and  is  hiding  here." 

Mason  was  offering  him  the  open  paper  and 
Charles  took  it.  Before  a  man  so  genuine  as  his 
new  friend  had  shown  himself  to  be,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  play  a  part.  Silently  he  dropped 
the  paper  on  his  bed.  He  sat  down  by  it,  leaving 
Mason  standing  with  a  sort  of  dumb  inquiry  in  his 
eyes.  It  was  significant  that  Mason  was  now  silent. 
It  was  significant  that  he  seemed  to  be  studying 
Charles's  features  in  the  dim  light  from  the  gas, 
studying  them  with  an  awkward,  reluctant  stare. 

"I'll  read  it  later — later,"  Charles  said,  faintly, 
taking  up  the  paper  and  laying  it  on  the  pillow  of 
his  bed.  ' '  I  hope  you  feel  better  since  you've  eaten, " 
he  went  on,  lamely.  "I — I  thought  the  soup  would 
do  you  good,  weak  as  you  are." 

The  natural  thing  for  Mason  to  have  done  would 
have  been  to  reiterate  his  appreciation,  but  he  only 
stood  staring  helplessly  at  Charles.  Afterward 
Charles  understood.  The  paper  contained  an  accu 
rate  description  of  him — appearance,  age,  manner, 
and  the  very  suit  he  was  then  wearing.  Mumbling 
some  excuse,  Mason  went  back  to  his  room.  Charles 
heard  him  moving  about,  and  now  and  then  he 
saw  his  shadow  flit  across  the  floor  of  the  hall. 

Some  one  was  coming  up  the  stairs.  Could  it  be 
an  officer  of  the  law?  Why  not?  He  stood  up  to 
meet  whatever  fate  was  in  store.  He  dared  not 
look  toward  the  stairs.  He  pretended  to  be  uncon 
cerned.  Then  he  saw  that  it  was  only  Mrs.  Reilly. 

' '  You  must  have  fresh  towels,"  she  smiled,  genially. 

78 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  almost  forgot  them.  I  hope  you  like  your  room, 
Mr. — Mr. —  I  didn't  get  your  name.  I  like  to 
know  who  my  roomers  are,  for  parcels  and  mail  are 
always  coming." 

"Browne,"  he  answered,  impulsively,  and  then 
bit  his  lip  to  keep  the  word  back.  But  it  was  too 
late,  and  the  situation  was  complicated  by  the  sud 
den  appearance  of  Mason  in  the  doorway  of  his 
room  behind  Mrs.  Reilly.  The  startled  look  in  his 
face  and  the  fact  that  he  disappeared  at  once  showed 
that  he  had  caught  the  name  and  grasped  its  sig 
nificance. 

"Brown?  That's  common  enough,"  Mrs.  Reilly 
laughed.  "I've  had  Browns  and  Whites  and  Blacks 
all  at  the  same  time.  How  is  Mr.  Mason?  I'm 
going  in  to  see  him." 

Turning,  she  went  into  Mason's  room,  and  Charles 
heard  her  laughing  and  talking  in  her  voluble  way. 
He  wanted  her  to  leave  so  that  he  might  read  the 
printed  condemnation  of  himself  from  his  old  home. 
She  seemed  to  linger  unnecessarily.  Presently,  how 
ever,  she  went  down  the  stairs,  and,  lighting  the  gas, 
he  read  the  article.  Mason  had  given  rum  a  compact 
summary  of  the  whole  thing,  but  the  details  lashed 
him  like  whips  of  fire.  It  is  one  thing  to  make  a 
sacrifice  for  a  loved  brother,  but  it  is  quite  another 
to  bear  calmly  such  consequences  as  he  was  facing. 
It  was  plain  now  that  even  if  he  escaped  he  was  for 
ever  lost  to  his  past. 

He  heard  Mason  coming  back.  What  could  the 
fellow  want  ? 

"I  see,"  Mason  began,  almost  huskily,  "that  I 
am  more  deeply  in  your  debt  than  I  thought.  Mrs. 

70 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Reilly  told  me  that  you  wanted  to  pay  my  back 
dues.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  show  my  appreci 
ation.  I  have  never,  in  all  my  knocking  about,  met 
a  man  with  such  a  kind  heart." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  that!"  Charles  replied.  "It 
was  nothing." 

"But  it  is — it  is  to  me,  you  may  be  sure.  I'll 
never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  I  want  to  serve  you. 
I  want  to  be  your  friend  as  you  have  been  mine. 
I've  come  here  now  to  tell  you  that " — Charles  knew 
what  he  meant  in  full— "that  I  will  stick  to  you 
through  thick  and  thin.  I  think  I  understand  the — • 
the  trouble  you  spoke  of  just  now.  You  will  need 
a  friend  now,  and  I  will  be  that  friend." 

Their  eyes  met.    They  both  understood. 

"Yes,  I  need  a  friend,"  Charles  said,  thickly, 
"and  it  is  good  to  find  such  a  one  in  you.  Some 
time  I  may  be  able  to  speak  more  freely  about  my 
self  than  I  can  now,  but  I  will  say  that,  as  I  see  it, 
I  am  not — not  quite  as  bad  as  one  would  think." 

"I  know  that.  I'd  bet  my  very  life  on  it,"  Mason 
declared,  warmly.  "But  let  all  that  drop.  Don't 
tell  me  anything.  I  know  men,  and  I  know  you 
are  pure  gold.  I  want  to  help  you  and  I  will  do  it 
if  it  is  possible." 

Turning  back,  he  entered  his  own  room.  A  won 
derful  senss  of  security,  blended  with  a  sense  of 
new-found  comradeship,  descended  on  the  lonely, 
pursued  man.  He  now  had  an  adviser,  a  friend 
whom  he  could  trust,  and  it  was  one  who  was  ca 
pable  of  suffering,  who  even  now  was  suffering. 

That  night  he  slept  soundly,  strangely  free  from 
the  fear  of  arrest. 

80 


CHAPTER   XI 

WHEN  William  Browne  reached  home,  after 
his  aimless  walk  which  he  had  taken  on  leav 
ing  the  bank  that  tumultuous  morning,  he  endeavored 
to  reach  his  room  unnoticed  by  any  member  of  the 
family,  but  on  the  landing  of  the  second  floor  he 
met  Celeste.  She  regarded  him  with  a  slow  look  of 
tentative  surprise. 

"I've  been  worried,"  she  said. 

"Worried,  why?"  he  questioned,  with  a  start. 

"Because  Mr.  Bradford  telephoned  me  two  hours 
ago  that  you  had  started  home  and  that  you  were 
not  feeling  very  well.  He  seemed  worried,  from 
the  excited  way  he  spoke.  Of  course  I  looked  for 
you  at  once.  How  could  I  tell  but  that  you  were 
seriously  ill  somewhere?" 

' '  I  thought  a  walk  would  do  me  good,  and  I  took 
it,"  William  bethought  himself  to  say.  "If  I'd  known 
he  was  telephoning  I  would  have  come  directly 
home." 

He  started  to  pass  her,  but,  touching  his  arm,  she 
detained  him.  Her  cheeks  were  pale,  her  thin  lips 
were  quivering. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  demanded. 

"I  told  you  I  was  not  feeling  very  well,"  he  an 
swered,  lamely,  trying  to  meet  her  penetrating  stare 

81 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

with  an  air  of  complete  self-possession.  "I've  had  a 
lot  of  head-work  to  do  at  night.  I'm  afraid  I  am 
near  a  breakdown.  Bradford  noticed  it  and  advised 
me  to  come  home." 

He  passed  her  now,  and  went  into  his  room.  She 
followed  close  behind  him,  and  when  he  turned  he 
saw  her. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise,  for  he  thought 
he  had  left  her  outside.  "What  is  it  now,  Lessie? 
You  know  you  are  acting  strangely." 

The  window-shades  were  drawn  down,  but  she 
resolutely  raised  one,  letting  the  sunlight  stream  in 
on  him. 

"If  I  am  acting  strangely,  so  are  you — so  are 
you,"  she  said,  desperately.  "Something  has  hap 
pened,  William,  and  you  can't  keep  it  from  me. 
I  have  a  right  to  know  and  I  will  know."  She  sat 
down  in  an  arm-chair  and  folded  her  white  hands 
in  her  lap. 

He  tried  to  smile,  but  his  smile  was  such  a  ghastly 
failure  that  he  gave  it  up.  He  turned  to  the  bureau. 
He  began  to  unbutton  his  collar  and  untie  his  cravat. 
His  brain  had  never  been  more  active  than  now. 
She  would  soon  know  the  whole  story  through  the 
afternoon  papers,  why  keep  it  from  her  now?  The 
only  explanation  was  that  William  Browne  could 
not  find  within  himself  the  power  and  poise  openly 
to  accuse  his  brother.  His  conscience  was  against 
it  and  something  else  was  against  it — the  fear  of 
Celeste's  shrewd  condemnatory  intuition.  She  did 
not  leave  him  long  to  his  turbulent  reflections.  ' '  You 
may  as  well  tell  me,"  he  heard  her  say.  "I  shall 
sit  right  here  till  you  do.  Is  it  about  Charles?" 

82 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

He  was  glad  that  she  was  behind  him,  since  he 
had  to  speak. 

"Yes,  it  concerns  him,"  William  answered.  "He 
has  gone  away,  no  one  knows  where.  You  know 
how  he  has  been  acting  of  late?  Well,  well,  he  is 
gone  this  time  for  good,  it  seems." 

"But  that  isn't  all — it  isn't  all,  and  you  know  it 
isn't!"  Celeste  leaned  forward  and  fixed  him  with 
a  demanding  stare.  "That  wouldn't  make  you  act 
as  you  are  now  acting,  or  look  as  you  look." 

William  jerked  his  cravat  from  his  neck  and  stood 
folding  it  with  unsteady  fingers.  "You  may  as  well 
know  the — the  rest,"  he  stammered.  "It  will  be 
in  the  papers.  He  has  been  reckless.  Half  the  time 
he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  He  must  have 
been  out  of  his  head,  for  a  large  amount  of  money  is 
missing  from  the  vault.  He  had  free  access  to  it. 
The  examiners  were  due  here  to-day,  and — and  the 
thing  could  not  have  been  kept  from  them,  so — so 
he  left  last  night." 

"I  know.  You  told  me  this  morning  at  break 
fast,"  Celeste's  tone  was  firm,  impersonal,  impatient. 
"He  wrote  you  a  note.  Was  it  about  that — about 
the  missing  money?" 

William's  eyes  sought  the  carpet  as  he  answered: 
"Yes,  he  didn't  have  much  else  to  say.  He  seemed 
to  think  that  would  be  sufficient  to — to  thoroughly 
explain  why — why  he  was  leaving." 

Celeste  stood  up.  She  sighed.  Her  husband  had 
never  seen  in  her  face  the  expression  that  was  in  it 
now. 

"William,  I  am  not  a  child.  I  am  not  a  fool!" 
she  said,  fiercely.  ' '  I  want  you  to  be  frank  with  me. 

83 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

He  is  your  brother  and  we  love  him.  Why  are  you 
not  perfectly  —  perfectly,  absolutely  open  about 
this?" 

"Open?  Am  I  not  open?"  he  evaded,  as  stupidly 
as  a  guilty  child  facing  indisputable  proof.  "What 
— what  is  wrong  now?  Haven't  I  told  you  all  that 
I  know  about  it?  You  ought  not  to — to  expect  me 
to  be  in  a  natural,  normal  state  of  mind  after  a 
thing  like  this  has  happened.  Surely  you  see  that 
it  was  all  due  to  me — I  mean  that  but  for  me  the 
directors  would  not  have  allowed  Charlie  to  be  about 
the  bank  after  he  became  so  dissipated.  As  it  is — 
as  it  is,  I  have  agreed  to  repay  the  missing  money. 
It  will  almost  bankrupt  me,  but  I  shall  do  it  some 
way  or  other." 

"You  did  not  know  it  before  you  got  his  note  at 
breakfast?"  Celeste  asked. 

"No,  not  till  then.  It  was  like  a  bolt  from  a 
clear  sky,"  said  William,  slightly  more  at  ease. 

"I  don't  believe  it — I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
that,"  Celeste  said,  firmly. 

"You  don't?  You  think  I  am  lying,  then?"  Will 
iam  gasped.  "My  God!  that  you  should  say  that 
to  me!" 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Celeste  repeated.  "I  don't, 
because  this  morning  when  you  came  down  you 
were  very  dejected.  I  have  never  seen  you  look 
so  much  so.  It  lasted  till  you  read  Charles's  note. 
Then  your  face  fairly  blazed  with  relief.  If  Charles 
told  you  for  the  first  time  in  that  note  that  he  was 
a  thief,  you  could  not  have  looked  like  that.  You 
say  you  are  all  upset  now  over  it.  Why  were  you 
not  then?" 

84 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  was — I  was,  but  I  tried  to  hide  it  from  you," 
was  the  slow  answer. 

"I  know  you  did,  in  a  way,  but  you  did  not  as 
sume  that  first  look  of  joy  and  relief.  I  see  that  you 
are  bent  on  keeping  me  in  the  dark.  I  see  a  reason 
for  it,  but  I  won't  mention  it  now.  When  you  feel 
like  putting  complete  confidence  in  your  wife,  let 
me  know.  This  is  our  first  misunderstanding,  but 
it  is  a  serious  one." 

She  left  him  stupefied,  unable  to  formulate  any 
defense.  He  was  aware,  too,  that  his  helplessness 
was  in  its  way  a  confession  that  she  was  right  in 
her  contention  against  him,  but  what  was  he  to  do  ? 
Retaining  her  respect  and  love  meant  much  to  him, 
but  the  other  horror  quite  forced  it  into  the  back 
ground.  Celeste  must  wait.  The  first  thing  to  be 
considered  was  the  retention  of  his  high  standing 
at  the  bank  and  the  respect  of  the  public.  The  seed 
of  suspicion  and  disrespect  was  sown  in  his  own 
home,  but  that  could  not  be  avoided.  Celeste  had 
defended  her  brother-in-law  before;  she  was  doing 
the  same  now.  She  was  pitying  the  absent  man  too 
much  for  the  absolute  safety  of  William's  plans. 
The  feeling  Celeste  was  entertaining  might  leak 
out  into  public  channels,  flow  here  and  there,  and 
create  dangerous  pools  of  suspicion.  William  threw 
himself  on  his  bed.  He  really  needed  sleep,  but  his 
brain  was  too  active  for  repose.  He  was  listening 
for  the  ring  of  the  'phone  in  the  hall  below — or, 
worse  than  that,  the  ring  of  the  door-bell.  What  was 
to  keep  those  shrewd  men  at  the  bank  from  seeing 
through  a  pretense  already  half  punctured  by  a 
woman?  William  thought  of  the  revolver,  but  that 

85 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

was  at  the  bank.  He  thought  of  quick  poisons, 
but  he  had  none,  then  of  gas,  but  the  room  was  too 
large  and  airy.  Suddenly  he  sat  up  on  the  bed,  his 
stockinged  feet  on  the  floor,  his  ears  strained  to 
catch  a  sound  which  came  from  the  street. 

"Extra!  Extra!  Extra!  Big  Bank  Robbery! 
Sixty  Thousand !  Thief  in  High  Social  Standing !" 

The  front  door  below  was  opened,  but  not  closed. 
He  crept  to  a  window  over  the  stoop  and  peered 
through  the  ivy  hanging  from  the  wall.  It  was 
Celeste  buying  a  paper  from  a  newsboy.  She  was 
reading  it.  Only  the  top  of  her  head  was  visible, 
outlined  against  the  paper.  How  unlike  Celeste 
to  stand  like  that  on  the  stoop,  in  the  view  of  people 
passing  by !  An  automatic  pang  of  pity  went  through 
the  storm-tossed  man.  Could  that  really  be  the 
young  girl  whom  he  had  loved  so  passionately — the 
frail,  tender  feminine  creature  he  had  taken  from 
the  care  and  protection  of  devoted  parents,  and 
brought  to  this?  A  dead  ivy-leaf  was  swinging  by 
a  spider's  web  and  spinning  before  his  eyes.  How 
odd  that  he  should  note  it,  that  he  should  notice 
how  the  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  the  dome  of  the 
Capitol,  that  he  should  find  his  brain  estimating 
how  many  copies  of  the  paper  the  shouting  boy 
could  dispose  of  in  that  street !  Celeste  was  coming 
into  the  house.  She  was  out  of  his  view  now.  He 
knew  that  she  was  in  the  hall  below,  still  reading, 
still  wondering,  still  bent  on  knowing  more  than  the 
paper  could  reveal. 

When  she  had  finished  reading  the  account, 
Celeste,  white  in  the  face  and  yet  steady  in  her 
step,  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  Michael  was 

86 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

there  at  work,  a  cleaning-cloth  and  metal-polish 
in  hand,  rows  of  knives,  forks,  and  spoons  ranged 
in  perfect  order  on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  His 
mistress  faced  him. 

"Did  you  know,  Michael,"  she  began,  spreading 
out  the  paper  on  the  table,  "that  this  paper  says 
that  Charles  has  stolen  a  large  amount  of  money 
and  run  away?" 

Instead  of  answering,  he  bent  over  the  paper. 
His  kindly  eyes  took  in  the  head-lines  at  a  glance 
and  he  looked  up,  slowly  shaking  his  head. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  it  is  here,"  he  answered.  "I  was 
afraid  something  would  be  said.  I  was  afraid  la'st 
night  that  something  was  wrong,  but  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  took  any  money.  I  don't!  I  never  will 
believe  it." 

Celeste  stepped  to  him.  He  was  merely  a  servant, 
but  she  put  an  eager  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked 
into  his  face  steadily. 

"I  don't  believe  it,  either,  Michael,"  she  said, 
huskily.  "I'll  never  believe  it.  He's  gone — he's 
gone,  but  something  else  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
It  may  have  been  like  this — don't  you  see?  Don't 
you  see  my  idea?  I  know  that  he  was  thoroughly 
disgusted  over  his  dissipation — over  what  they  say 
happened  at  the  police  station  and  his  club;  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  perhaps  he  was  a  burden  on 
us  and  determined  that  he  would  go  away.  And  it 
just  happens,  you  see,  that  the  money  was  missing 
and  they  all  connect  him  "with  the  loss  because  he  is 
gone?" 

"It  does  look  like  that,  madam,"  Michael  said 
almost  eagerly. 
7  87 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"But,  Michael,  Michael,  what  do  you  think  of 
this?"  and  she  pointed  to  a  paragraph  in  the  paper. 
' '  Here  is  what  they  say  was  in  the  note  you  handed 
Mr.  Browne  at  breakfast.  See !  See !  Look !  Read 
it!" 

Michael  obeyed  stolidly,  then  he  looked  up.  "I 
know,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  he  wrote  it.  I  think 
so  from  something  he  said  to  me  about  bank  money 
last  night,  but  still  I  don't  think  he  is  guilty.  He 
didn't  look  it,  madam." 

"You  say  he  didn't?"  Celeste's  fine  features  held 
an  incipient  fire  which  glowed  through  her  thin 
skin  and  was  focused  in  her  eyes. 

' '  No,  madam,  he  was  too — I  might  say,  too  happy- 
looking.  Oh,  I  know  the  difference  between  the 
looks  of  a  guilty  man  and  an  innocent  one!  I've 
run  against  both  brands." 

"And  you  say  he  was  happy — happy  over  leaving 
us,  perhaps  never  to  return?  Don't  you  think  that 
is  strange,  Michael?" 

"Yes,  madam,  that  was  odd.  I  must  say  that  I 
could  not  make  it  out.  He  was  jolly,  and  he  was 
not  drinking,  either.  If  I  never  see  him  again,  I'll 
never  forget  how  he  looked." 

"I've  been  to  his  room,"  Celeste  went  on.  "He 
took  very  few  things,  but  do  you  remember  the  last 
photograph  of  Ruth  that  he  had,  in  a  silver  frame 
on  his  bureau?  He  took  that;  at  least  it  is  missing." 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  put  it  into  his  bag,"  said  the 
servant.  "Oh,  he  thinks  a  lot  of  the  child!" 

"And  she  almost  worships  him" — Celeste's  voice 
shook  at  its  lowest  depths — "and  she  will  never 
understand  his  absence.  How  am  I  to  tell  her? 

88 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

What  am  I  to  say?  She  may  hear  this" — indicating 
the  paper  with  a  gesture  of  contempt — "  from  other 
children.  Oh,  Michael,  to  think  that  her  ideal  is 
to  be  destroyed,  and  unjustly  destroyed,  for,  as 
you  say,  and  as  I  say,  our  Charlie  is  not  a  thief!" 

Michael  had  taken  up  his  cleaning-cloth  and  a 
silver  platter.  "I  shall  never  believe  that  he  is, 
madam,"  he  faltered.  "I  shall  not  read  that  paper, 
either.  It  would  upset  me — make  me  mad." 

"I  had  to,"  Celeste  replied,  dejectedly.  "I  see 
now  that  I'll  have  to  read  other  things  about  him. 
He  may  be  brought  back  to  Boston,  Michael.  You 
see  the  mention  of  the  big  reward?  They  will 
search  everywhere,  and  Charlie  is  too  unsuspecting, 
too  innocent,  to  get  away — that  is,  if  he  really 
wants  to  get  away.  Did  it  strike  you  last  night  that 
he  wanted  to  get  away  unhindered,  Michael?" 

"Yes,  madam,  he  was  anxious  about  that,  and 
that  is  strange,  too." 

"Yes,  it  is  strange,"  Celeste  said,  "for  he  is  not 
guilty.  He  must  have  had  a  reason,  but  what  could 
it  have  been,  Michael?" 

"I  can't  say,  madam,"  answered  the  servant,  ap 
plying  his  polish  and  rubbing  the  platter  vigorously. 

Celeste  folded  the  paper.  "This  talk  is  just  be 
tween  us,"  she  said,  half  questioningly. 

"I  understand,  madam,  I  understand,"  Michael 
said,  bowing  as  she  was  leaving  the  room. 

In  the  hall  she  met  her  husband  coming  down  the 
stairs,  his  trembling  hand  sliding  on  the  walnut 
balustrade  as  for  support.  Their  eyes  met.  "I 
am  going  back  to  the  bank,"  he  explained.  "It  is 
after  closing-time,  but  the  directors  may  be  holding 

89 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

a  consultation.  It  would  be  better,  I  think,  for  me 
to  offer  any  assistance  in  my  power.  Bradford  sug 
gested  that  I  stay  away  for  a  while,  but  I  have 
thought  it  over  and  I  think  I  ought  to  be  there." 

"Yes,  it  might  be  better,"  Celeste  agreed,  or 
seemed  to  agree.  "If  you  hear  anything  bearing 
on — on  Charlie's  innocence — if  they  discover  that 
the  money  was  taken  by  some  one  else — I  wish  you 
would  telephone  me  at  once." 

"Some  one  else?"  he  said,  staring  blankly.  "But 
you  see  they  have  his  note.  Bradford  wanted  that 
to — to  show  to  the  rest." 

"Yes,  I  know  about  the  note" — Celeste  was  turn 
ing  into  the  parlor,  her  eyes  averted — "but  some 
thing  else  may  come  up  to  throw  light  on  even  the 
note." 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  he  admitted,  stupidly,  "and  in 
that  case  I'll  'phone  you." 

She  vanished  through  the  door,  and  he  stalked 
down  the  steps  into  the  street.  He  walked  slowly 
and  with  a  self-imposed  limp.  He  kept  his  head 
down. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  her,"  he  mused,  tur- 
bulently.  "She  does  not  believe  it  all.  She  may 
never  be  satisfied,  and  in  that  case  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
I  can't  keep  this  up.  It  is  as  unbearable  as  the 
other  thing  from  which  Charlie  saved  me.  But  I 
must  not  give  in — I  must  not!  He  has  given  me 
his  word  of  honor  never  to  reveal  our  compact  and 
never  to  return.  If  he  is  not  caught  I  shall  escape. 
I  may  lose  my  wife,  but  I'll  escape." 


CHAPTER  XII 

weeks  passed  by.  For  the  most  of  the 
A  time  Charles  stayed  close  in  the  larger  room, 
which  he  and  Mason  now  occupied  together,  with 
a  view  to  the  utmost  economy.  They  had  become 
warm  friends.  When  Charles's  funds  were  almost 
exhausted  Mason  received  a  check  for  fifty  dollars 
in  payment  of  a  debt  owed  him  by  a  brother-in-law 
in  the  West,  and  Charles  had  to  share  it. 

Mason  never  again  alluded  to  the  discovery  he 
had  made  in  regard  to  the  trouble  Charles  was  in, 
excepting  once,  when  they  were  walking  together  in 
a  crowded  street  on  the  East  Side,  and  he  had 
noticed  that  Charles  seemed  to  be  slightly  nervous. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Mason,  suddenly.  "I'll 
keep  a  sharp  watch  out,  and  I'll  let  you  know  if  I 
see  the  slightest  thing  that  looks  fishy.  Keep  your 
mind  off  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  know  any  more 
about  it,  either.  From  what  you  say  I  gather  that 
you  are  bound  by  some  promise  or  other  to  keep 
your  mouth  eternally  closed,  even  to  a  friend  like 
me.  That's  all  right.  I  admire  you  all  the  more 
for  it.  You  may  be  a  thief  to  those  Boston  folks, 
but  you  are  not  to  me.  The  fact  that  you  don't 
even  deny  the  charge  means  nothing  to  me." 

Upon  another  occasion,  one  rainy  evening  Mason 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

took  up  the  framed  photograph  of  Ruth  which 
Charles  always  had  on  the  bureau,  table,  or  mantel 
piece,  and  stood  admiring  it. 

"Say,  pal,"  he  said,  suddenly,  as  he  wiped  the 
glass  over  the  little  face  with  his  handkerchief,  "if 
I  ever  leave  you  I'll  want  to  steal  this  thing.  It  has 
grown  on  me.  She  must  be  a  beauty,  and  so  sweet 
and  gentle." 

Charles  rose,  took  the  picture  into  his  hands, 
and  stood  looking  at  it  steadily.  "I  wouldn't  take 
the  world  for  it,"  he  said. 

' '  I  think  I  know  something  about  her — I  can  guess. 
You  say  you  used  to  drink  hard  at  one  time,  though 
you  don't  now." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  but  what  else?"  Charles  went 
on,  still  feasting  his  homesick  eyes  on  the  picture. 

"I  don't  want  to  bring  up  things  that  will  pain 
you  for  no  good  in  the  world,"  Mason  said,  "so  let's 
drop  it." 

"No,  go  ahead,"  Charles  urged,  half  smiling.  "I 
want  you  to  finish,  for  I  think,  from  some  little 
things  you  have  dropped  now  and  then,  that  you 
are  mistaken  about  me — in  one  particular,  at  least." 

"Well,"  Mason  went  on,  "I  have  an  idea  that 
you  were  once  happily  married  and  that — well,  the 
old  habit  got  the  upper  hand  so  far  that  your  wife 
took  the  little  girl  and  went  away." 

"Wrong,  old  man,"  Charles  said,  with  a  weary 
smile.  "I've  never  been  married." 

"Ah,  then  she  is  a  little  sister — " 

"No,  only  a  niece,"  Charles  interrupted,  "but  I 
love  her  and  I  think  she  loved  me  at  one  time,  and 
may  still,  perhaps.  They  say  that  children  soon 

92 


THE   HILLS   OF   REFUGE 

forget  those  they  love,  and,  as  I  shall  never  see  Ruth 
again,  she  is  sure  to  forget  me;  but  I  shall  never 
forget  her.  Do  you  know,  old  man,  that  that  very 
little  angel  has  seen  me  drunk.  She  has  crept  into 
my  arms  and  hugged  me  tight  when  I  was  too  drunk 
to  know  she  was  near.  I  came  to  myself  one  day 
when  she  was  crying  in  alarm  because  she  could 
not  wake  me  up.  Oh,  if  I  could  blot  that  out! 
Perhaps  when  Ruth  is  grown  she  will  recall  that 
scene  more  vividly  than  any  other  associated  with 
me.  It  is  odd,  but  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  shall  ever 
drink  a  drop  again — the  desire  has  left  me  com 
pletely.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  has." 

"Our  talk  is  on  the  wrong  line  to-night,"  Mason 
said,  sympathetically.  "You  said  once  that  it  was 
absolutely  impossible  for  you  ever  to  go  back  to 
your  old  friends,  and  if  that  is  so  this  talk  is  doing 
you  no  good  at  all." 

"No,  it  is  doing  no  good,"  Charles  admitted. 
"When  I  think  of  those  old  days  my  very  soul  seems 
torn  apart.  Lost  opportunities — the  'what  might 
have  been'  but  wasn't!  Yes,  let's  talk  of  the  pres 
ent.  What  chance  for  work  now?" 

Mason  lighted  his  pipe,  which  he  had  been  care 
fully  filling.  "There  is  a  chance,  but  not  here  in 
New  York.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  rather  like 
the  idea,  for  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have  seen  in  which 
we  could  stay  together." 

"A  chance?  What  is  it?"  Charles  demanded, 
putting  the  picture  back  into  its  place. 

"You  may  laugh,  but  this  monotony  is  killing 
me,  and  I  am  thinking  seriously  of  taking  the 
plunge,"  Mason  said,  as  he  puffed  away.  "I  want 

93 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

you  to  come,  but  not  if  you  don't  like  it.  This 
morning  I  met  a  man  in  Union  Square  who  told  me 
he  was  taking  a  week  off  from  a  job  with  a  traveling 
circus  and  menagerie.  It  is  now  in  Philadelphia. 
It  will  be  in  Newark,  New  Jersey,  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  He  says  men  who  are  willing  to  do 
hard  manual  labor  can  always  get  employment, 
good  food,  fair  sleeping-quarters  on  the  train,  and 
two  dollars  a  day  promptly  paid.  I've  always  liked 
outdoor  work.  The  thing  fairly  charms  me,  for  I 
want  to  see  more  of  the  country,  but  I  don't  want 
to  throw  you  over.  I've  got  used  to  you.  I'd  be 
lost  without  you.  I've  never  had  a  real  pal  before." 

Charles  lighted  his  own  pipe.  He  frowned  as  if 
in  deep  reflection.  "I'm  going  to  be  frank,"  he  said, 
presently.  "I  am  like  you.  I  like  the  idea  of  that 
sort  of  life  immensely,  and  I  am  dying  of  dry  rot. 
But  I  am  wondering,  would  a  man — well,  a  man 
like  me,  for  instance — be  as  safe  there  as  here." 

"Safer,  in  my  opinion,"  Mason  declared,  eagerly. 
"In  a  roundabout  way  I  dug  it  out  of  the  chap  that 
many  of  the  hangers-on  were  fellows  who,  for  differ 
ent  reasons,  were  dodging  officers  of  the  law.  He 
said  he  did  not  like  that  feature  of  the  life,  but  that 
you  don't  have  to  associate  with  them  unless  you 
like.  Gosh!  you  know,  I  like  the  idea,  and  I  wish 
you  did!" 

"Newark,  day  after  to-morrow,"  Charles  said, 
thoughtfully.  "That's  close.  Well,  I'll  think  it 
over.  It  looks  inviting,  doesn't  it?  Yes,  I'll  think 
it  over.  What  will  we  have  to  do?" 

Mason  laughed.  "Feed  the  animals;  drive  stakes 
and  pull  them  up;  help  about  the  big  tent-kitchen; 

94 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

dress  up  like  Turks  or  some  other  outlandish  creat 
ure  and  march  in  the  street  processions,  and  Heaven 
only  knows  what  else." 

"It  is  getting  interesting,"  Charles  smiled.  "I'll 
let  you  know  soon.  Keep  it  in  view.  It  is  the  only 
thing  in  sight,  and  we  will  starve  at  this  rate." 

The  two  friends  happened  to  be  in  Madison  Square 
the  following  afternoon,  and  were  attracted  by  the 
sight  of  several  groups  of  people  gathered  around 
some  "soap-box"  orators  in  the  space  set  aside  by 
the  city  for  such  meetings.  Speeches  were  made 
daily  by  the  men  and  women  on  religion,  science, 
philosophy  and  every  form  of  politics  from  crass 
anarchy  to  ideal  socialism.  For  the  most  part,  the 
speakers  were  of  foreign  birth  or  the  descendants  of 
foreigners.  Presently  they  were  drawn  into  a  group 
that  was  gathering  about  a  blond-bearded  phi 
losopher  who  had  the  ascetic  face  of  a  mystic  and 
who  was  telling  how  he  had  forsaken  a  life  of  prac 
tical  activity  and  had  found  infinite  peace.  Men 
in  the  group  who  openly  avowed  themselves  to  be 
atheists  began  to  laugh  and  jeer  and  ask  pertinent 
questions.  The  speaker  replied  to  them.  A  fierce 
argument  arose.  The  noise  of  the  discussion  at 
tracted  persons  in  the  other  groups  and  Mason  and 
Charles  found  themselves  hemmed  in  by  the  close- 
pressing  human  mass.  Charles,  who  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  man's  theory  of  renunciation,  sud 
denly  felt  his  friend  nudging  him  with  his  elbow. 
Looking  into  his  face  he  detected  a  queer  expression 
in  it. 

"Let's  get  out,"  Mason  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  insistent  note  of  warn- 

95 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ing  which  it  held,  and,  sure  now  that  something 
was  wrong,  Charles  quickly  assented  and  began 
worming  his  way  through  the  crowd.  It  was  difficult 
to  do  so,  for  the  spectators  were  all  deeply  interested 
in  the  argument  and  did  not  care  to  stand  aside. 
As  they  laboriously  moved  forward,  inch  by  inch, 
Charles  noticed  that  Mason  now  and  then  cast  a 
furtive  backward  glance  into  the  throng,  as  if  anxious 
to  avoid  some  one. 

"Come  on,  come  on!"  he  kept  urging.  Finally 
they  were  free  and  on  the  open  sidewalk.  "Come 
on!"  Mason  repeated,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Charles  asked,  bewildered. 

Looking  back  toward  the  crowd,  Mason  suddenly 
lowered  his  head  again  and  said,  warningly:  "Don't 
look  back.  I  see  him  watching  us.  He  followed  us 
out  of  the  crowd."  Mason  swore  under  his  breath. 
"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this  a  bit — not  a  bit!" 

Further  along  he  explained.  "I  was  looking  over 
that  bunch  of  men  just  now  when  all  at  once  I  saw 
a  short  man  a  little  behind  us  watching  you  like  a 
hawk.  He  evidently  didn't  think  we  were  together. 
He  never  let  your  face  leave  him  for  a  minute.  I 
saw  his  eyes  gleaming,  as  if  he  had  just  discovered 
you  and  was  studying  your  features." 

"And  you  think — "  Charles  did  not  finish. 
'He  looked  to  me  like  a  detective  in  plain  clothes. 
I  have  seen  some  of  them,  and  he  was  of  that  type. 
He  couldn't  hide  his  interest.  You  know  your 
picture  has  been  published.  It  looked  to  me  like 
this  fellow  was  comparing  you  to  it  in  his  mind.  I 
don't  know,  but  I  am  sure  we  must  dodge  him  if 
we  can." 

96 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come  out  like  this,"  Charles 
sighed,  gloomily.  "I've  been  a  fool." 

"Never  mind,  come  on,"  Mason  said,  looking 
back.  "I  don't  see  him  now.  We'll  give  him  the 
shake." 

They  went  up  to  Central  Park ;  they  sat  there  on 
one  of  the  benches  till  sundown,  and  then  went  back 
to  their  room.  Both  were  very  grave  and  neither 
had  much  to  say. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AT  seven  o'clock  Mason  proposed  that  he  should 
go  out  and  get  something  for  them  to  eat, 
while  Charles  stayed  in  the  house  to  avoid  the  pos 
sibility  of  being  seen  by  any  one  who  might  be 
searching  for  him.  Charles  consented,  but  when  his 
friend  was  gone  his  sheer  loneliness  became  all  but 
unbearable.  The  tawdry  room  with  its  cheap  gas- 
fixtures  of  rusted  cast  iron,  the  machine-made  oil- 
paintings,  the  tattered,  dust-filled  carpet,  the  cracked 
furniture,  seemed  a  sort  of  prison  cell  in  which  he 
was  confined.  Not  since  his  disappearance  from 
Boston  had  the  outlook  seemed  so  hopeless.  He 
told  himself  that  it  would  only  be  a  question  of  a 
day  or  so  now  before  he  would  be  caught  and  taken 
back  to  his  old  home.  He  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  the  scandal  in  the  mind  of  the  public.  William, 
who  no  doubt  had  felt  somewhat  secure  for  the  past 
two  weeks,  would  find  himself  on  that  black  brink 
again.  Celeste — poor,  gentle,  sensitive  Celeste — 
would  suffer  now  in  reality,  and  little  Ruth!  Why, 
the  child  might  even  ask  to  see  him  there  in  jail, 
and  what  reason  could  he  give  her  for  his  incarcer 
ation?  He  paced  the  floor  back  and  forth.  How 
long  Mason  was  in  returning!  Had  anything  de 
tained  him?  Presently  Mason  came  back.  He 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

brought  nothing  with  him.  He  looked  too  much 
concerned  to  have  thought  of  his  errand. 

"Say,  it's  serious,"  he  began.  "I  didn't  have  time 
to  go  to  the  restaurant.  As  I  went  out,  old  man, 
[  saw  that  same  fellow  standing  in  front  of  our  door, 
across  the  street.  He  was  in  the  shadow,  but  I  saw 
him  and  recognized  him  by  his  build.  I  couldn't 
doubt  it,  for  when  he  saw  me  come  out  he  bolted. 
He  turned  and  went  straight  to  the  corner  and  down 
the  avenue.  I've  been  watching  outside  ever  since 
to  see  if  he  was  coming  back." 

"Then  he  followed  us,"  Charles  said. 

"Every  step  of  the  way  to  the  Park.  He  had  us 
under  his  eye  while  we  were  there,  and  he  dogged 
our  steps  back  here.  Say,  you've  got  to  listen  to  me. ' ' 

"I'm  ready,"  Charles  said,  gloomily.  "You  can 
decide  better  than  I  can." 

"Here  is  my  idea,"  Mason  said.  "He  evidently 
intends  to  get  a  warrant  for  you,  but  it  may  not  be 
possible  till  to-morrow.  We  must  get  away  from 
here  to-night — at  once.  There  is  no  time  to  lose. 
We  are  going  to  Newark." 

"The  circus?"  Charles  said,  inquiringly. 

"Yes,  but  we  must  not  be  followed  by  that  fellow, 
or  any  one  else.  Now  I'll  pack  a  few  things,  and  you 
do  the  same.  Make  a  small  parcel.  Don't  bother 
with  your  bag.  Thank  God,  our  rent  is  paid.  We 
are  not  going  by  train.  That  would  be  risky.  We 
are  going  to  walk  most  of  the  way  through  the  coun 
try.  It  will  be  safer  than  in  the  trains  that  may  be 
watched  by  the  police.  Hurry  now!" 

Mason  was  soon  ready.  "Listen,"  he  said,  im 
pressively.  "I'm  going  outside  now.  You  bring 

99 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

both  parcels  with  you.  I'll  stroll  along  the  street 
and  make  sure  that  the  coast  is  clear.  When  you 
come  out,  if  you  see  me  with  a  newspaper  in  my 
hand  it  will  mean  that  you  are  to  follow  me,  and 
you  do  it.  If  I  have  no  paper  you  are  to  go  back 
and  wait  here  till  I  come." 

Ten  minutes  later  Charles  descended  the  stairs. 
He  deemed  it  lucky  that  he  met  no  one.  A  clock  be 
low  was  striking  ten.  Outside  he  looked  up  and  down 
the  street.  Presently  he  saw  Mason  on  the  first 
corner.  He  was  in  front  of  a  laundry,  a  newspaper 
in  hand.  He  saw  that  Mason  had  seen  him,  for 
he  turned  suddenly  and  began  to  walk  westward. 
Charles  followed  for  several  blocks.  Presently  Mason 
stopped  in  a  spot  where  there  was  little  light,  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  up. 

"Coast  is  clear,  I  think,"  Mason  softly  chuckled. 
"That  skunk  thinks  his  game  is  safe  till  to-morrow, 
for  he  doesn't  dream  we  are  on  to  him." 

"Where  are  we  going  now?"  Charles  asked,  vastly 
relieved  by  his  friend's  confident  tone,  and  the  sud 
den  sense  of  the  freer  life  into  which  they  were  going 
like  two  children  of  Fate. 

"We  must  cross  the  Hudson  somewhere,"  Mason 
answered.  ' '  We  could  take  the  ferry  at  One  Hundred 
and  Thirtieth  Street.  It  is  less  apt  to  be  watched 
than  the  others,  but  still  I  want  to  avoid  even  that 
chance  of  detection.  There  are  some  small  boat- 
houses  near  One  Hundred  and  Eighty-first  Street. 
I've  hung  about  them  a  good  deal.  If  we  can  get 
there  unnoticed  we  can  be  taken  across  in  a  row- 
boat  or  small  launch — easy  enough  to  pretend  to 
be  camping  out  over  there.  Hundreds  are  doing  it 

100 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

this  summer.  We  could  take  a  car  up,  Subway  or- 
surface,  but  I  think  we  ought  to  make  for  the  river-, 
front  and  do  it  afoot.  It  is  a  long  walk,  but  it  is 
safe." 

"It  suits  me,"  Charles  agreed,  and  side  by  side 
they  continued  in  their  westward  course. 

Reaching  Broadway,  they  walked  northward  till 
they  came  to  Fiftieth  Street;  then  they  turned  to 
the  river-front.  It  was  a  fine  night.  The  Albany 
excursion-boats,  brilliantly  lighted,  were  passing. 
Hundreds  of  smaller  craft,  yachts,  sailboats,  launches, 
and  canoes,  dotted  the  surface  of  the  broad  stream, 
and  from  some  of  them  came  strains  of  band  music, 
the  strident  notes  of  a  clarinet,  merry  voices  singing 
to  the  accompaniment  of  stringed  instruments. 

' '  Fine !  Fine !"  Mason  kept  muttering.  ' '  We  ought 
to  have  done  this  before.  You  can't  beat  it  at  this 
time  of  the  year." 

They  were  passing  a  small  restaurant  and  Mason 
paused.  "We've  got  to  eat,"  he  laughed.  "I  like 
the  looks  of  this  snug  joint.  What  do  you  say?" 

Charles  consented.  The  haunting  sense  of  danger 
was  gone.  He  was  hungry.  They  went  in.  The 
hour  was  too  late,  the  single  attendant  said,  for  any 
thing  to  be  served  except  sandwiches  and  coffee. 
They  ordered  a  supply,  drank  two  cups  of  coffee 
each,  and  ate  their  sandwiches  as  they  walked  on. 

They  were  soon  in  the  neighborhood  of  Columbia 
University  and  Grant's  Tomb.  The  moonlight  on 
the  river,  the  abrupt  cliffs  of  the  Palisades  beyond, 
on  the  top  of  which  gleamed  the  lights  of  an  amuse 
ment  park,  drew  Charles  into  a  reminiscent  mood 
which  suddenly  became  painful  in  the  extreme.  He 

101 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

told  himself  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  Mason 
could  be  cheerful.  He  had  a  home  and  relatives  to 
whom  he  could  return  when  he  wished,  but  with 
Charles  the  wide  world  was  his  only  home.  He  was 
so  bound  by  his  promise  to  his  brother  that  he 
could  not  reveal  his  entire  past  even  to  Mason,  who 
had  proved  himself  worthy  of  all  confidence.  Re 
morse  over  his  ill-spent,  dissipated  youth  was  all 
but  gone,  for  something  told  him  that  he  was  fully 
atoning  for  all  the  mistakes  of  the  past.  It  was  Will 
iam  he  was  saving,  yes,  and  William's  good  wife  and 
sweet  child  growing  into  promising  girlhood.  After 
all,  what  did  it  matter  what  became  of  him  ?  Noth 
ing,  he  thought,  and  with  the  reflection  came  a  vast 
sense  of  peace  and  freedom  from  care.  He  was  a 
man  without  home  or  kin  now,  but  what  did  it 
matter?  All  sorts  of  interesting  things  could  happen 
to  a  world-wanderer  like  himself.  He  could  tell  no 
one  who  he  was  or  where  he  was  from,  but  surely 
he  need  not  be  unhappy.  Indeed,  whenever  he 
thought  of  William's  escape  from  disgrace  and  death 
by  his  own  hand,  and  realized  that  his  vicarious 
sacrifice  had  made  possible  that  escape,  he  felt 
wondrously  happy. 

It  was  midnight  when  they  reached  the  boat- 
house  where  Mason  intended  to  secure  passage 
across  the  river.  It  was  a  long,  narrow,  two-story 
building,  with  a  float  at  one  end  and  a  dance-hall 
on  the  upper  floor.  The  hall  was  lighted  up  and  a 
dance  was  in  progress.  Through  the  windows  they 
could  see  the  young  couples  waltzing. 

"Glad  it  is  going  on,"  Mason  said,  reflectively. 

"Our  chance  is  all  the  better  to  get  across.  Some 

102 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

of  these  fellows  live  in  tents  on  the  Jersey  shore 
and  may  be  going  back  to-night.  Stay  down  here 
on  the  float  and  I'll  nose  about.  I  know  the  owner 
of  the  house  fairly  well." 

Charles  sat  on  a  bench  on  the  float.  The  vast 
sheet  of  water  was  smooth.  The  larger  boats  were 
no  longer  in  sight.  Now  and  then  a  canoe  holding 
a  pair  of  lovers  drifted  by,  or  a  sailboat  almost  be 
calmed.  The  sound  of  a  piano  and  a  violin  came 
through  the  raised  windows  of  the  dance-hall,  and 
the  low  swishing  of  sliding  and  tripping  feet,  merry 
laughter  and  jesting,  loud  orders  for  drinks  or  cigars 
in  the  bar.  Presently  Mason  came  back.  Charles 
saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  pleased  over  something. 

"Boat-house  man  says  he  will  take  us  across  in  a 
few  minutes  for  a  dollar.  Cheap  enough.  He  thinks 
we  are  out  for  a  hike  on  the  other  side.  He  has  a 
launch.  He  has  to  wait  till  the  dance  is  over.  It  is 
breaking  up  now." 

This  was  true,  for  the  couples  came  down  the 
stairs  and  began  to  get  into  canoes  and  launches. 
The  sight  of  the  lovers  drew  Charles's  thoughts  back 
to  himself  again.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it 
before?  Love  and  marriage  were  the  things  he 
could  never  expect  to  enjoy,  and  yet  they  now  seemed 
to  be  essential  to  life.  How  lovely  was  the  girl  with 
the  golden  hair  and  brown  eyes  who  laughed  so 
joyously  as  her  escort  tripped  over  a  coil  of  rope 
and  all  but  fell  into  the  water!  And  what  a  giant 
of  a  creature  was  the  man  himself  as  he  lifted  the 
slender  girl  in  his  arms  and  playfully  shook  her  to 
silence  her  amused  twitting. 

"Here  you  are,  young  feller!"  It  was  the  boat- 
8  103 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

house  keeper  drawing  his  little  launch  alongside 
the  float.  "I'll  spin  you  over  in  five  minutes  on 
water  like  this.  You  guys  are  taking  an  early  start 
for  a  hike." 

"Obliged  to  do  it,"  Mason  fibbed,  with  a  straight 
face.  "We  have  to  catch  some  chaps  at  Alpine  before 
they  start  in  the  morning.  All  right.  We  are  ready. ' ' 

The  tiny  engine  began  to  rattle.  The  boat  glided 
away  from  the  float  and  was  soon  under  way.  Look 
ing  back  at  the  almost  deserted  boat-house  Charles 
had  a  sense  of  safety  from  pursuit  that  was  very 
soothing.  He  saw,  too,  that  the  same  thought  was 
evidently  in  Mason's  mind,  for  he  was  very  easy 
in  his  manner  and  had  much  to  say  to  the  boatman 
in  regard  to  fishing  and  boating.  They  landed  at 
a  little  pier  almost  directly  opposite  the  boat-house. 
Mason  paid  the  fare  and  the  boatman  left  them. 

' '  Smooth,  smooth !  Slick,  slick !"  Mason  chuckled. 
"We  are  safe  now.  What  do  you  say;  shall  we  lie 
down  here  and  take  a  nap  till  morning,  or  go  right 
on?  It  is  six  of  one  and  a  half-dozen  of  the  other?" 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me,"  Charles  replied.  "I 
am  not  really  tired." 

"I  am  not,  either,"  Mason  said.  "I'll  tell  you, 
though,  that  my  choice  would  be  to  hike  it  by  night. 
I've  been  over  the  road  once  before,  and  if  we  go 
now  we  will  not  be  noticed  by  a  single  soul,  while 
in  the  daytime  we  might  accidentally  be  seen  by 
some  one  on  the  lookout  for  you.  It  is  a  stiff  climb 
to  the  top,  but  let's  make  it  and  go  on  to  Newark. 
We'll  get  jobs.  I'm  absolutely  sure  of  it,  from 
what  that  fellow  told  me  in  Union  Square.  They 
happen  to  be  very  short  on  help.  Well,  it  will  mean 

104 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

three  square  meals  a  day,  plenty  of  outdoor  exercise, 
and  a  bunk  to  sleep  in  over  rattling  car-trucks. 
I'm  going  to  take  to  it  like  a  fish  to  water." 

"I  shall  like  it,  too,"  Charles  declared,  and  they 
set  out  for  the  road  leading  up  the  Palisades  to 
the  level  country  above.  The  joyous  mood  of  his 
companion  communicated  itself  to  Charles,  and  he 
felt  very  light-hearted.  The  warm  sense  of  a  new 
existence  tingled  over  him.  He  felt  all  but  impon 
derable  as  he  strode  along  by  his  friend  in  the  clear 
moonlight  and  the  bracing  air  from  the  river. 


PART    II 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  May,  one 
year  later.  The  two  friends  were  still  boon  com 
panions.  They  had  joined  the  force  of  can^asmen 
of  the  circus  and  menagerie  at  Newark,  gone  w'th 
the  organization  to  California,  and  were  now  in  the 
mountains  of  Georgia,  where  the  company  was  billed 
to  exhibit  and  perform  at  the  town  of  Carlin. 

Their  long  train  reached  the  place  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  drew  up  on  a  side-track  near  the 
circus-grounds,  and  the  canvasmen  were  gruffly  or 
dered  out  of  their  bunks  to  go  to  work.  Charles  and 
Mason  slept  opposite  each  other,  and  now  stood 
dressing  in  their  rough  clothes  in  the  dim  light  of 
a  dusky  oil-lantern  at  the  end  of  the  car. 

"Dog's  life,  eh?"  Mason  said,  recalling  a  remark 
Charles  had  made  the  night  before. 

' ' That  and  nothing  else, ' '  Charles  muttered ;  "I've 
had  enough,  for  my  part." 

"Well,  I  have,  too,"  Mason  admitted,  "and  I'm 
ready  to  call  it  off.  But  I  think  I  ought  to  stick 
till  we  get  back  to  New  York." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  go  back  there," 
Charles  said,  in  a  more  guarded  tone,  as  they  went 
down  the  narrow  aisle  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  Mason  said,  "and 
109 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

after  all,  you  may  be  dead  right  about  it.  But  what 
would  you  do  if  you  called  it  off  right  here  to-day, 
as  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  doing?" 

But,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  Charles  made  no 
response.  It  was  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  question, 
so  deeply  was  he  absorbed  in  thought.  There  was 
no  time  for  further  conversation.  The  foreman  drove 
them  like  sheep  to  the  work  of  unloading  the  canvas, 
ropes,  and  stakes,  and  the  hasty  erection  of  the  tents. 
Seat-building,  ring-digging,  stake-driving  with  heavy 
sledge-hammers,  kept  them  busy  till  after  sunup. 
Then  it  was  all  over.  They  were  permitted  to  go 
to  the  dining-tent  set  aside  for  the  "razor-backs," 
as  the  canvasmen  were  called,  to  get  their  breakfast ; 
and  then  they  were  free  to  sleep  or  amuse  themselves 
till  ten  o'clock,  when  they  were  expected  to  get 
ready  for  the  street  procession.  An  event  was  due 
to-day  which  occurred  only  once  a  month,  and  that 
was  the  payment  of  wages,  so,  after  breakfast,  they 
joined  the  string  of  men  waiting  their  turn  at  the 
windowed  wagon  of  the  paymaster  to  get  their 
money.  Mason  got  his  first,  and  Charles  found 
him  waiting  for  him  after  he  had  been  paid. 

"What's  up  now — sleep?"  Mason  inquired. 

"I  thought  I'd  look  around  the  town,"  Charles 
replied.  "I'm  tired,  of  course,  but  I  don't  feel 
sleepy." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  Mason  smiled.  "I'm  trying 
to  get  on  to  your  curves.  You  mystify  me  to-day. 
I've  never  seen  you  look  like  you  do  now.  What  has 
happened?" 

They  were  now  entering  the  main  street  of  the 
town,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  circus-grounds  were 

no 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

situated.  Green  hills  encircled  the  place  and  be 
yond  rose  the  mountain  ranges  and  towering  peaks. 
The  spring  air  was  quite  invigorating;  the  scene  in  the 
early  sunlight  appeared  very  beautiful  and  seductive. 

"I  was  going  to  mention  it  to  you,"  Charles  said. 
"I  ought  to  have  done  so  sooner.  You  see,  in  a  way, 
it  concerns  my  old  trouble,  and  I've  been  trying  to 
forget  that." 

"Oh,  well,  don't  mention  it,  then,"  Mason  said, 
sympathetically.  "I  know  how  you  feel  about  it." 

"But  I  must  tell  you  this  and  be  done  with  it," 
Charles  went  on.  "Last  night  as  we  were  loading 
I  heard  two  of  our  gang  talking  on  the  quiet.  It 
seems  that  some  expert  bank  robbers  are  with  us, 
using  us  as  a  shield.  In  fact,  they  are  on  the  force 
itself.  Telegrams  have  been  sent  out,  and  we  may 
all  have  to  stand  an  examination  such  as  we  went 
through  in  New  Orleans.  That  was  enough  for  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  got  through  that  last  ordeal 
by  the  very  skin  of  my  teeth.  I  can't  answer  all 
those  questions  again — I  simply  can't.  It  is  different 
with  you.  You  have  a  straight  tale  to  tell,  but  I 
haven't!" 

"Where  did  they  think  the  examination  would 
be  made?"  Mason  wanted  to  know. 

"Next  stop — Chattanooga." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  Mason  mused,  "and,  as  you  have 
been  paid  off — " 

"If  I  am  going  to  quit,  now's  the  time,"  Charles 
answered,  gravely.  "I  don't  want  to  part  from  you, 
but  really  we  are  not  situated  alike.  You  have  been 
homesick  for  the  last  three  months.  You  cannot 
hide  it.  You  are  always  talking  of  your  people." 

in 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mason  blushed  visibly.  "Well,  so  are  you  home 
sick.  I  wish  I  could  see  that  fellow  Mike  you  are 
always  talking  about.  I  know  every  story  by  heart 
that  the  Mick  ever  told,  and  the  little  girl  and  your 
brother  and  his  wife — why,  you  think  about  them 
as  often  as  I  do  about  my  folks." 

Charles  made  no  denial.  They  were  passing  one 
of  the  churches  of  the  town.  It  was  an  old  brick 
building  with  ivy  growing  on  the  walls,  a  beautiful 
sward  about  it.  The  front  doors  were  open.  They 
paused  and  looked  in.  A  negro  sexton  was  sweeping 
the  floor  near  the  pulpit.  Mason  was  for  moving 
on,  but  his  friend  seemed  to  linger. 

As  they  left,  Charles  said,  frankly:  "I'm  not  a 
member  of  any  church  and  I  have  no  religious  creed, 
but  if  I  lived  in  this  town  I'd  want  to  come  here  every 
Sunday  morning  and  sit  back  somewhere  in  the  rear 
and  listen,  and  get  into  contact  with  the  people, 
real  people — not  the  sort  we've  been  traveling  with 
for  nearly  a  year.  O  God!  I'm  weary  of  it — weary, 
weary!  I  want  a  home  of  some  sort.  You  have 
one  that  you  can  go  to.  I  haven't,  but  I  want  to 
make  one.  Strange  idea,  isn't  it?  But  I  want  it." 

Mason  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm  gently, 
tenderly.  "Poor  old  chap!"  he  said.  "I  understand 
you  better  now.  And  you  think  you  could  make 
a  permanent  home  for  yourself  in  a  place  like  this?" 

"Something  tells  me  to  stop  here — right  here, 
old  man.  Something  seems  to  say  that  it  is  to  be 
my  home  for  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  Ever  since  we 
turned  northward  I've  felt  uneasy.  I've  not  slept 
so  well.  I've  dreamed  of  disaster  up  there.  I've 
not  heard  from  home  once  since  we  left  New  York. 

112 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I've  seen  no  paper.  I  don't  know  what  they  think 
of  me.  Some  of  my  people  may  be  dead.  I  don't 
know.  I  don't  dare  to  think  of  it.  I  want  to  blot 
it  all  out,  for  it  no  longer  pertains  to  me." 

"I  see,"  Mason  said,  gloomily.  "Well,  you  must 
be  your  own  judge  and  I  must  be  mine.  Somehow 
I  can't  dig  the  homesick  feeling  out  of  myself.  I 
thought  I  could  stick  to  the  gang  till  we  got  back 
to  New  York,  but,  as  I  have  my  pay,  and  some  more 
besides,  if  you  quit  I'll  follow  suit  and  travel  first- 
class,  like  a  gentleman,  back  to  New  York,  where 
I'll  stop  a  while  before  going  home.  Have  you 
made  up  your  mind?" 

"Yes,  fully,"  Charles  answered.  "I'll  find  some 
thing  to  do.  I'd  like  to  work  on  a  farm.  Out  in  the 
country  my  life  could  be  even  more  private  and 
secluded  than  here  in  a  town  like  this.  See  those 
hills?  They  seem  made  for  me,  old  man.  They 
seem  to  have  fallen  from  the  eternal  blue  overhead. 
They  will  shelter  me.  I'll  work  and  sleep  and  forget. 
The  inhabitants  will  never  know  who  I  am,  but  I'll 
like  them.  I'll  serve  them,  and  perhaps  they  will 
like  me  a  little  after  a  while.  The  manager  can  easily 
fill  my  place." 

"Well,  then,  it  is  settled,"  said  Mason,  with  a 
deep  breath.  "It  seems  strange  to  think  of  parting 
with  a  pal  like  you,  and  I  guess  it  means  for  good 
and  all.  You  don't  intend  ever  to  see  your  folks 
again?" 

"My  relatives,  no,"  Charles  said.  "I've  thought 
often  of  writing  back  to  dear  old  Mike,  but  don't 
think  it  would  be  quite  safe.  If  I  had  any  way  of 
communicating  with  him  other  than  the  mails  I 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

would  let  him  know  where  I  am.  I  could  trust  him 
with  my  life." 

"How  about  letting  me  go  to  Boston?  I  could 
see  him  on  the  quiet  and  tell  him  about  you." 

"No,  that  would  be  out  of  your  way,"  Charles 
protested.  "Never  mind.  It  is  better  as  it  is.  I'd 
like  to  hear  from  Mike,  but  he  belongs  to  the  past 
with  all  the  rest.  Let's  go  to  the  car  and  pack." 


CHAPTER  II 

HPHE  two  friends  parted  at  the  train  that  night. 
•••  Charles  felt  a  pang  of  loneliness  as  his  com 
panion  was  borne  away.  He  had  his  bag  with  him 
and  he  wondered  what  he  had  better  do.  There  was 
a  small  hotel  near  by  and  he  went  into  the  office 
and  asked  for  a  room.  The  clerk  handed  a  pen  to 
him  across  the  counter  and  turned  the  register 
around  for  him  to  inscribe  his  name.  Charles  hesi 
tated  for  barely  an  instant,  then  decided  to  make 
use  of  his  own  name.  It  looked  strange  to  him, 
for  he  had  not  written  it  since  he  left  home. 

"C.  Brown,"  he  smiled.  "Too  common  to  attract 
notice.  I've  given  up  everything  else;  I  will  stick 
to  my  name.  I  can't  always  be  lying  about  it." 

A  negro  porter  showed  him  his  room.  It  was  on 
the  second  floor  and  looked  out  toward  the  circus- 
grounds.  The  windows  were  up  and  he  could  hear 
the  band  and  the  clapping  of  hands  by  the  audience. 
The  air  of  the  room  was  hot,  and  so  he  threw  off  his 
coat  and  tried  to  be  comfortable,  but  he  was  rest 
less  and  had  no  inclination  to  sleep.  He  knew,  from 
the  changing  airs  of  the  band,  every  act  that  was 
on  in  the  ring.  He  could  hear  the  familiar  voice  of 
the  clown,  the  crack  of  the  ringmaster's  whip,  and 
the  clown's  comical  cry  of  pain,  followed  by  the 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

moss-grown  jests  Charles  had  heard  hundreds  of 
times. 

Finding  that  he  could  not  sleep,  he  put  on  his 
coat  and  went  out.  The  street  below  was  quite 
deserted.  The  stores  were  all  closed.  Everybody 
had  gone  to  the  circus.  He  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
street,  then  turned  eastward  and  climbed  a  hill  in 
the  edge  of  the  town.  He  had  the  square  and  the 
diverging  streets  before  him,  and  an  odd  sense  of 
part  ownership  in  it  all  crept  over  him. 

"It  is  mine,  it  is  mine!"  he  whispered.  "I'll  live 
here  or  close  by.  I'll  make  a  home  of  it." 

The  performance  was  over  under  the  vast  canvas. 
He  knew  it  from  the  ceasing  of  the  music  and  the 
far-away  hum  of  voices  as  the  crowd  filtered  back 
to  the  town.  One  by  one  the  tent  lights  went  out. 
He  heard  the  rumble  of  the  wheeled  animal  cages, 
the  gilded  band-wagon  and  gaudy  chariots,  as  they 
were  rolled  on  to  the  flat  cars;  the  loud  shouts  of 
teamsters;  the  roar  of  a  disturbed  lion.  He  heard 
the  clatter  of  the  seat-boards  and  supports  as  they 
were  taken  down  and  hauled  to  the  train,  the  crash 
of  falling  tent-poles,  the  familiar  oaths  of  the  fore 
man  of  the  gang  he  had  just  left.  Soon  the  lights 
were  all  out  save  those  moving  about  the  train. 
The  bell  of  the  locomotive  was  ringing  a  hurry  signal. 
Charles  had  a  mental  picture  of  his  former  com 
panions  tumbling,  half  undressed,  into  their  berths 
in  the  dimly  lighted  cars.  There  was  a  sound  of 
escaping  steam  from  the  locomotive,  a  clanging  of 
its  bell.  The  train  was  moving.  Charles  waved 
his  hat  in  the  still  air  as  the  train  was  passing  the 
foot  of  the  hill. 

116 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Good-by,  boys!"  he  said,  with  feeling.  "I'll 
never  see  you  again." 

The  train  moved  on  and  disappeared  in  the  dis 
tance.  Charles  sat  down  on  a  boulder.  For  a  year 
past  he  had  longed  for  just  that  sort  of  freedom, 
but,  now  that  it  was  within  his  reach,  it  somehow 
lacked  the  charm  he  had  expected.  Suddenly  he 
felt  averse  to  the  thought  of  sleeping  in  the  room 
he  had  taken  at  the  hotel.  He  wanted  to  lie  on  the 
grass  there  in  the  starlight,  and  greet  the  rising  of 
the  sun  upon  his  new  life.  But  he  told  himself  that 
he  had  better  go  to  the  hotel.  Not  to  occupy  a 
room  after  engaging  it  might  arouse  suspicion,  so 
he  went  back  to  the  deserted  square. 

The  clerk  was  behind  the  counter  and  gave  him 
his  key.  "You  was  with  the  circus,  wasn't  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  but  how  could  you  tell?"  Charles  answered. 

"Oh,  by  your  clothes,"  the  young  man  replied. 
"All  of  you  fellers  look  different  from  common 
folks,  somehow;  your  hats,  shirts,  shoes  ain't  the 
sort  we-all  wear.  Then  you  are  as  sunburnt  as 
gipsies.  You've  quit  'em,  I  reckon!" 

"Yes,"  Charles  told  him.  "I'm  going  to  try 
something  else.  I  want  to  work  on  a  farm  if  I  can 
get  a  job." 

"Easy  enough,  the  Lord  knows,"  said  the  clerk, 
smiling  broadly.  "Farm-hands  are  awfully  scarce; 
niggers  all  moving  off.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I 
heard  to-day  of  a  job  that  is  open.  Miss  Mary  Row 
land  is  stopping  here  in  the  house  now.  In  fact, 
I  think  she  came  in  town  to  catch  some  of  the  floating 
labor  brought  in  by  the  show.  I  know  she  didn't 

117 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

go  to  either  performance.  She  is  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Quinby,  the  wife  of  the  feller  that  runs  this  hotel, 
and  when  she  cornes  in  town  she  always  puts  up 
with  us.  She  is  a  fine  girl  and  a  hard  worker.  The 
Rowlands  are  one  of  our  oldest  and  best  families, 
but  run  down  at  the  heel,  between  you  and  me.  Her 
daddy  lost  a  hand  in  the  Civil  War,  and  can't  work 
himself.  He's  got  two  boys,  and  take  it  from  me 
they  are  the  limit.  The  wildest  young  bucks  in 
seven  states.  The  old  man  don't  know  how  to 
handle  'em,  and  Miss  Mary  has  give  up  trying.  If 
she  can  keep  'em  out  o'  jail  she  will  be  satisfied." 

Not  being  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  the  clerk's  gossip, 
Charles  sought  his  room  and  went  to  bed.  It  was 
somewhat  cooler  now  and  he  soon  fell  asleep.  He 
was  waked  at  nine  o'clock  by  the  sound  of  some 
enormous  trunks  being  trundled  into  the  sample- 
room  set  aside  for  the  use  of  commercial  travelers 
across  the  hall  from  his  own  chamber,  and,  rising 
hurriedly,  he  went  down-stairs.  He  was  quite 
hungry  and  afraid  that  he  might  be  too  late  to  be 
served  with  breakfast.  The  same  clerk  was  on 
duty;  he  smiled  and  nodded. 

"I  kept  your  breakfast  for  you,"  he  said.  "The 
dining-room  is  closed,  but  we  make  exceptions  once 
in  a  while.  Walk  right  in — just  give  the  door  a  shove. 
I'll  go  in  the  kitchen  and  have  you  waited  on.  You 
take  coffee,  I  reckon?" 

Charles  said  he  did,  and  went  into  the  big,  many- 
tabled  room  adjoining  the  office.  The  clerk  followed 
and  passed  into  the  kitchen  through  a  screened  door. 

He  appeared  again  in  a  moment.  "It  will  be 
right  in,"  he  said.  "You  can  set  right  here  by  the 

118 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

window.  This  seat  ain't  taken.  We've  got  a  lot 
of  town  boarders.  It  helps  out,  I'm  here  to  state. 
They  get  a  low  cut  rate  by  the  month,  but  it  brings 
in  money  in  the  long  run.  Say,  you  remember  you 
said  you  were  looking  for  a  job  on  some  farm?  That 
young  lady  I  was  telling  you  about,  Miss  Mary 
Rowland,  was  at  breakfast  just  now,  and  I  told  her 
about  you.  She  was  powerfully  interested,  for,  be 
tween  you  and  me,  she  is  in  a  hole  for  want  of  labor 
out  her  way.  She  missed  fire  in  every  attempt  she 
made  yesterday.  She  trotted  about  town  all  day, 
and  had  to  give  it  up.  She  begged  me  to  see  you. 
She  went  out  about  half  an  hour  ago  to  do  some 
trading  at  the  dry-goods  stores.  She  said  tell  you 
she'd  be  at  Sandow  &  Lincoln's  'most  all  morning, 
and  hoped  you'd  come  in  there.  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing — you  will  be  treated  right  out  there  if  you 
do  go,  and  they  will  feed  you  aplenty  and  give  you 
a  clean  bed  to  sleep  in.  You  just  tell  her  Sam  Lee 
sent  you — everybody  about  here  knows  Sam  Lee — 
and  if  you  just  said  'Sam'  it  would  do  as  well.  I 
get  up  all  the  dances  for  the  young  folks  here  in 
this  room.  We  shove  the  tables  back  ag'in'  the  wall, 
hire  a  nigger  fiddler  and  guitar-picker,  and  have  high 
old  times  at  least  once  a  month.  You  see  Mrs. 
Quinby  favors  that  because  it  makes  a  pile  of  drum 
mers  lie  over  here,  and  they  pay  the  top  rate.  What 
do  they  care?  Expense-account  stretches  to  any 
size." 

Charles  promised  to  look  Miss  Rowland  up,  and, 

being  needed  in  the  office,  Sam  Lee  hastened  away. 

Charles  enjoyed  his  breakfast.     The  food  was  an 

agreeable  change  from  the  fare  of  which  he  had  grown 

9  119 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

tired  in  the  dining- tent  of  the  circus.  The  clean 
white  plates  and  dishes  appealed  to  him  by  contrast 
to  the  scratched  and  dented  tin  ones  the  canvasmen 
had  been  obliged  to  use.  The  eggs,  butter,  and  ham 
seemed  to  be  fresh  from  the  mountain  farms;  the 
coffee  was  fine,  clear,  and  strong;  the  cream  was 
thick  and  fresh;  the  bread  was  hot  biscuits  just 
from  the  range. 


CHAPTER  III 

AFTER  breakfast  Charles  went  out  into  the 
•**•  street.  It  was  a  clear  day,  and  the  mountains 
in  the  distance,  the  near-by  green  hills,  the  blue 
sky,  appealed  to  him.  His  morbid  mood  of  the  night 
before  was  gone.  Life  seemed  to  promise  something 
to  him  that  had  not  been  within  his  reach  since  the 
hopeful  days  of  his  boyhood.  He  wondered  if  he 
was  already  becoming  identified  with  a  locality 
which  he  could  regard  as  a  permanent  home.  He 
smiled  as  he  asked  himself  who  would  look  for  him 
here  among  these  buried-alive  people.  How  simple 
and  quaint  the  farmers  looked  as  they  slowly  moved 
about  their  produce-wagons  in  front  of  the  stores 
of  general  merchandise!  How  amusing  their  drawl 
ing  dialect  as  they  priced  their  cotton,  potatoes, 
chickens,  and  garden  truck!  The  sign  of  Sandow 
&  Lincoln's  store  hung  across  the  sidewalk  in  front 
of  him.  He  turned  in  there.  A  number  of  country 
women  with  their  children  stood  along  the  counters 
on  both  sides  of  the  narrow  room,  all  being  waited 
on  by  coatless  clerks.  A  clerk  approached  Charles. 

"Something  to-day,  sir?"  he  asked. 

Charles  told  him  what  he  wanted,  and  the  clerk 
nodded.  ' '  Oh  yes !"  he  said, ' '  Miss  Mary  was  talking 
about  you  just  now.  She  said  you  might  come  in, 

121 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

but  she  wasn't  at  all  sure.  She  is  in  the  grocery 
department,  next  door.  She  said  tell  you  to  wait 
back  in  the  rear,  if  you  came.  You  will  find  a  seat 
there.  I'll  tell  her  when  she  comes  in.  No,  Mrs. 
Spriggs,  we've  quit  handling  nails."  This  to  a  gaunt 
young  woman  at  his  elbow,  with  a  baby  on  her  arm. 
"When  the  new  hardware  started  up  we  agreed  to 
go  out  of  that  line  and  sold  'em  our  stock.  It  is 
right  across  the  street.  You  can't  miss  it." 

Charles  went  back  to  the  rear  of  the  long  room 
and  took  one  of  the  chairs.  A  country  girl  came 
with  several  pairs  of  shoes  in  her  arms,  and  sat  down 
near  him  to  try  them  on.  It  amused  him  to  note 
the  way  she  pulled  them  on  over  her  coarse  stockings, 
and  stood  up  on  a  piece  of  brown  paper  to  prevent 
any  scratching  of  the  soles.  Finally  she  made  a 
selection,  and  went  back  with  all  the  shoes  in  her 
arms.  There  was  a  long  table  holding  suits  of  cloth 
ing  against  the  wall,  and  a  young  farmer  came  back 
and  began  to  pull  out  some  of  the  coats  and  examine 
them. 

Catching  Charles's  glance,  he  smiled.  "Most  of 
'em  moth-eaten,"  he  said,  dryly.  "They've  had  'em 
in  stock  ever  since  the  war — mildewed  till  they  smell 
as  musty  as  rotting  hay  in  a  damp  stack.  Show 
feller,  eh?" 

"I  was,"  Charles  admitted. 

"I  heard  the  clerk  talking  about  you  just  now," 
the  man  went  on.  "That  was  a  good  show,  if  I'm 
any  judge.  The  best  clown  I  think  I  ever  saw.  How 
any  mortal  man  can  think  up  funny  things  and  fire 
'em  back  as  quick,  first  shot  out  of  the  box,  as  that 
feller  did  in  answering  questions  beats  me." 

12? 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Charles  explained  that  both  the  questions  and  re 
plies  had  been  in  use  a  long  time,  and  the  farmer 
stared  in  wonder. 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  he  said.  "That  sorter 
spoils  it,  don't  it?  Well,  every  man  to  his  own  line, 
I  reckon." 

He  might  have  asked  more  questions,  but  Miss 
Rowland  was  approaching  from  the  front.  As  he 
rose  to  his  feet  Charles  was  quite  unprepared  for 
what  he  saw.  He  had  pictured  her  as  an  elderly 
spinster,  somewhat  soured  by  work,  misfortune,  and 
family  cares,  but  here  was  a  graceful  young  girl 
hardly  past  eighteen,  with  a  smiling,  good-humored 
face  that  was  quite  pretty.  She  was  slight  and  tall; 
she  had  small  hands  and  feet,  hazel  eyes,  and  a 
splendid  head  of  golden-brown  hair. 

"I  think  you  are  Mr.  Brown,"  she  began,  smiling 
sweetly.  "Mr.  Sam  Lee  said  he  would  speak  to 
you  about  what  I  want." 

"He  sent  me  here,"  Charles  answered.  For  the 
first  time  since  his  exile  he  was  conscious  of  the  re 
turn  of  his  old  social  manner  in  the  presence  of  a 
lady,  and  yet  he  knew  there  was  much  that  was  in 
congruous  in  it,  dressed  as  he  was  in  soiled  and  shabby 
clothing. 

"I  certainly  am  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  in  that 
round,  deep  and  musical  voice  which  somehow  held 
such  charm  for  his  ears.  "I  tell  you  I  am  sick  and 
tired  of  trying  to  get  help,  and  our  cotton  and  corn 
are  being  choked  to  death  by  weeds.  If  you  don't 
come  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do." 

' '  I  am  perfectly  willing,"  he  half  stammered,  under 
the  delectable  thrall  of  her  eyes  and  appealing  mien 

123 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

of  utter  helplessness,  "but  I  must  be  frank.  I  am 
ignorant  of  field  work.  My  idea  was  to  offer  my 
help  to  some  farmer  who  would  be  patient  with  me 
till  I  got  the  hang  of  it.  Of  course,  I  could  not  ex 
pect  wages  till — till — " 

"Oh,"  she  broke  in,  with  a  rippling  laugh,  "you 
wouldn't  have  any  trouble  in  that  respect!  A  child 
can  cut  out  weeds  with  a  hoe.  I  did  it  when  I  was 
a  tiny  thing.  All  you  have  to  learn  is  the  difference 
between  corn  and  cotton  and  weeds.  I  can  show  you 
that  in  a  minute.  Oh,  if  that  is  all,  we  can  fix  that !" 

"That  is  the  only  thing  I  can  think  of,"  Charles 
answered.  "I  am  tired  of  the  roving  life  I've  been 
leading  with  the  circus  and  I  want  to  locate  some 
where  permanently." 

"Then  we  may  as  well  talk  about  the — the  wages," 
the  girl  said.  ' '  The  price  usually  paid  is  two  dollars 
a  day  for  six  days  in  the  week,  and  board  thrown  in. 
How  would  that  suit  you?" 

"I  am  only  afraid  I  won't  earn  it — at  first,  any 
way,"  Charles  said.  "I  think  I'd  better  let  you  pay 
me  according  to  what  I  am  worth.  Money  is  really 
not  my  chief  object.  I  only  want  a  place  to  live. 
It  happens  that  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world — no  kin 
or  close  friends." 

"Oh,"  Mary  cried,  softly,  "that  is  sad — very, 
very  sad.  "I  sometimes  think  that  all  my  troubles 
come  from  having  so  many  dear  ones  to  bother  about, 
but  it  must  be  worse  not  to  have  any  at  all.  What 
a  strange  life  you  must  have  been  leading !  And  you 
—you" — she  hesitated,  and  then  went  on,  frankly — 
"you  seem  to  be  of  a  sensitive  nature.  And  yet, 
from  what  I've  always  heard  of  showmen — " 

124 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Seeing  that  she  had  paused,  he  prompted  her. 
"You  were  saying — " 

"More  than  I  have  any  right  to  say  on  such  a 
short  acquaintance,"  she  replied,  coloring  prettily, 
"but  I'll  finish.  Of  course,  we  don't  know  about 
such  things,  but  we  have  the  impression  that  show 
men  are  rough  and  uneducated;  but  you  are  quite 
the  opposite." 

"There  are  all  classes  among  the  workers  about 
a  circus,"  he  said — "good,  bad,  and  indifferent." 

"Well,"  she  smiled,  "let's  get  back  to  business. 
When  can  you  come?  We  live  five  miles  out,  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountains,  and  any  one  can  direct  you 
to  our  plantation — I  say  'plantation,'  because  it 
used  to  be  styled  that  when  we  owned  a  lot  of  slaves 
and  land.  Nowadays  the  slaves  are  all  free  and 
our  land  has  been  sold  off,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
till  we  have  only  a  farm  now." 

"I  can  come  any  day,"  Charles  answered.  "I 
have  nothing  to  do  and  would  rather  be  at  work." 

"Well,  then,  suppose  you  come  out  in  the  morn 
ing,"  Mary  said.  "I'm  going  right  home,  and  I  want 
to  fix  a  place  for  you  to  sleep.  We've  got  a  rather 
roomy  house,  but  it  is  not  fully  furnished.  Oh,  you 
will  find  us  odd  enough!  We  used  to  have  a  lot 
of  old  furniture,  but  we  got  hard  up  a  few  years  ago 
and  sold  it  by  the  wagon-load  to  a  dealer  in  antiques. 
We  have  some  of  the  old  things  left,  but  very  few. 
The  man  shipped  the  furniture  to  Atlanta  and  sold 
it  at  a  very  high  price.  A  funny  thing  happened 
about  it.  I  was  down  there  visiting  a  cousin  of 
mine,  and  we  went  to  a  tea  given  by  a  wealthy 
woman — one  of  the  sort,  you  know,  that  says  'I 

125 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

seen/  and  'had  went.'  Well,  you  may  imagine  my 
surprise  when  I  recognized  our  old  mahogany  side 
board  in  her  dining-room.  She  saw  me  looking  at 
it,  and  set  in  and  told  me  a  long  story  about  how 
it  had  come  down  to  her  through  several  generations 
on  her  mother's  side.  I  was  crazy  to  know  how 
much  she  paid  for  it,  to  see  how  badly  we  were  stuck 
by  that  dealer,  but  of  course  I  kept  my  mouth  shut." 

Charles  laughed  heartily,  and  it  struck  him  with 
surprise,  as  he  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  almost 
the  first  genuine  laugh  he  had  enjoyed  since  he  had 
left  his  home.  Then  he  became  conscious  of  his 
incongruous  appearance.  He  noticed  the  enormously 
heavy,  unpolished  boots  he  wore,  with  their  thick 
leather  and  metal  heel-taps.  His  nails  were  neg 
lected,  his  hands  as  rough  and  calloused  as  a  black 
smith's;  he  had  not  shaved  for  several  days  and 
his  beard  felt  bristly  and  unclean.  The  shirt  he 
wore  was  thick,  coarse,  and  collarless;  the  trousers 
resembled  the  stained  overalls  of  a  plumber.  He 
wondered  that  Miss  Rowland  should  be  treating  him 
in  such  a  cordial  and  even  friendly  manner,  and  he 
decided  that  it  might  be  the  way  of  the  higher 
class  in  the  South. 

"Well,"  she  suddenly  said,  turning  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  store,  "I'm  going  to  expect  you." 

"I  promise  you  that  I  won't  fail,"  he  said,  ear 
nestly,  fumbling  his  coarse  cap  in  his  hands. 

"And  I  believe  you  mean  it."  She  smiled  that  en 
trancing  smile  again  and,  to  his  surprise,  she  held 
out  her  hand.  As  he  took  it  an  indescribable  sensa 
tion  passed  over  him.  It  felt  soft  and  warm  and 
like  some  sentient,  pulsing  thing  too  delicate  and 

126 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

helpless  for  the  touch  of  the  rough  palm  which  now 
held  it. 

"Many  have  fooled  me,  both  white  and  black," 
she  went  on.  "They  swore  they  would  come — 
even  some  of  our  old  slaves — but  didn't.  However, 
I  know  I  can  count  on  you." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  it,"  he  answered.  "The  ob 
ligation  is  on  the  other  side.  I  want  work  badly 
and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  giving  it  to  me." 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  will  like  it  out  there!"  she  said, 
thoughtfully,  as  she  lingered,  and  with  her  words 
she  dropped  her  eyes  for  the  first  time.  "We  have 
our  troubles  and  you  will  be  sure  to  notice  them.  I 
have  two  brothers,  Kenneth  and  Martin,  both  older 
than  I  am,  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  they  are 
somewhat  wild  and  reckless.  I  never  know  where 
they  are  half  the  time.  Yes,  they  are  bad — they 
are  my  dear  brothers  and  I  love  them  with  all  my 
heart,  but  they  are  bad.  They  drink;  they  play 
poker;  they  are  always  in  fights.  It  was  to  get 
Kenneth  out  of  trouble,  to  pay  his  lawyer  and  the 
fines,  that  we  sold  some  of  our  best  land.  He  wasn't 
altogether  to  blame,  I'll  say  that;  but  he  is  quick 
tempered  and  never  could  control  himself.  Martin 
is  getting  to  be  like  him.  He  imitates  Kenneth  in 
everything.  It  all  rests  on  me,  too.  My  father  is  as 
easy-going  as  an  old  shoe  and  doesn't  care  much 
what  happens.  You  will  find  him  odd,  I  reckon. 
He  has  only  one  hand;  he  can't  work,  and  so  he  is 
always  at  his  books.  He  is  writing  a  history  of-  the 
Rowlands.  He  spends  all  our  spare  change  for 
stamps  to  write  to  people  of  that  iiame  whenever 
he  happens  to  hear  of  one.  It  is  a  fearful  waste  of 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

time  and  energy,  but  it  amuses  him  and  I  can't  object. 
Well,  I  am  going  now.    I'll  count  on  you,  sure." 

"You  may  be  sure  I'll  come,"  Charles  repeated. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  he  ought  to  accompany  her 
to  the  door,  but  at  once  realized  that  the  instinct 
to  do  so  came  from  the  past  in  which  he  had  the 
social  right  to  consider  himself  on  an  equality  with 
any  lady.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  watched 
her  as  she  moved  through  the  motley  throng  of 
country  people  in  the  store.  How  different  she 
seemed  from  them  all!  Then  an  indescribable  sense 
of  dissatisfaction  came  over  him.  Why,  he  was  to 
be  her  servant,  nothing  more  nor  less,  and  the  free 
dom  she  had  shown  meant  nothing.  Yet  surely  it 
wasn't  so  bad  as  that,  after  all.  She  had  said  that 
lie  seemed  to  have  a  sensitive  nature  and  that  he 
struck  her  as  being  an  educated  man.  Yes,  she  had 
said  those  things,  and  he  was  sure  that  the  memory 
of  them  would  never  leave  him.  He  was  glad  that 
he  had  parted  company  with  Mason,  as  much  as  he 
liked  him,  for  he  wanted  to  hug  this  new  adventure 
close  to  his  own  individual  breast.  She  had  her 
troubles,  and  was  bravely  bearing  them.  He  would 
never  complain  again  over  his  lot.  He  went  through 
the  store  and  out  onto  the  street.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  very  atmosphere  that  seemed  to  shower 
down  content  and  joy  upon  him.  He  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  day  wandering  about  the  old  town, 
almost  as  one  in  a  delightful  dream.  He  was  almost 
superstitious  enough  "to  think  that  some  guiding 
angel  in  an  invisible  world  had  led  him  to  this  spot. 
Ruth,  Celeste,  William — they  might  remain  out  of 
his  life  forever.  He  had  passed  through  a  terrible 

128 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

travail  to  attain  this  new  birth,  but  the  whole  ordeal 
was  worth  it.  He  told  himself  that  no  vastly  good 
thing  ever  came  till  the  price  was  paid,  and  he  had 
paid  long  and  well  for  this.  Work?  He  laughed. 
He  could  work  till  he  fell  in  exhaustion  in  such  a 
cause.  Then  he  laughed  again. 

"Why,  she  is  only  a  girl!"  he  said.  "Am  I  a  fool? 
After  all  these  years  of  common  sense  am  I  losing 
my  mind?  Now  what  is  there  about  her  that  does 
not  belong  to  the  average  woman?" 

He  did  not  attempt  to  fathom  the  mystery.  He  only 
knew  that  he  was  already  itching  with  the  desire  to 
see  her  again.  He  wanted  to  serve  her.  She  was  a 
merry  child  and  a  thoughtful  woman  deliciously 
compounded.  The  lights  of  joy  and  the  shadows  of 
trouble  seemed  alternately  to  flit  over  her  wondrous 
being.  She  had  troubles,  and  so  had  he.  He  was 
almost  glad  that  it  was  so,  for  he  would  kill  his  own 
in  fighting  hers.  Her  round,  mellow  accent  sounded 
in  his  ears  like  dream  music.  The  touch  of  her 
delicate  hand  remained,  and  thrilled  him  through 
and  through. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  dusk  he  was  back  at  the  old  hotel.  His 
strange  happiness  amounted  to  ecstasy.  Sam 
Lee,  at  the  cigar  case  and  counter,  the  pigeon 
holed  key-rack  behind  him,  filled  him  with  a  desire 
to  laugh.  How  vain  and  empty  the  fellow's  curling 
mustache  and  damp,  matted  hair  made  him  look! 
Charles  went  into  the  dining-room  for  his  supper. 
He  was  quite  hungry  and  enjoyed  the  meal.  When 
it  was  over  he  sauntered  out  on  the  veranda.  Some 
one  in  the  parlor  overhead  was  playing  the  piano. 
It  was  an  old  instrument  and  the  notes  had  a  jingling, 
metallic  sound.  Through  an  open  window  came  the 
merry,  jesting  voice  of  Sam  Lee  chatting  familiarly 
with  a  drummer  in  flashy  attire.  Up  the  walk  from 
the  station  came  a  negro  pushing  a  two-wheeled 
truck  laden  with  a  mammoth  trunk.  The  negro  was 
humming  a  tune;  his  torn  shirt  was  falling  from 
a  bare,  black  shoulder.  Catching  sight  of  a  colored 
waiter  idling  at  a  window  of  the  diring-room,  he 
uttered  a  loud  guffaw  and  continued  to  laugh  as  he 
trudged  up  the  walk.  Charles  started  out  again 
to  see  the  town.  This  time  he  strolled  along  the 
principal  residential  street.  Many  of  the  houses 
stood  back  on  wide  lawns.  All  had  porches  or 
verandas.  Through  the  front  windows  he  caught 

130 


sight  of  families  at  supper.  On  one  lawn  a  group 
of  children  was  playing.  Homes,  homes!  what  a 
beautiful  thing  a  home  was !  Why  had  he  not  real 
ized  this  and  made  one  for  himself  when  he  had  a 
chance  ? 

Turning  back,  he  went  to  the  hotel  and  up  to  his 
room.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  but  he  was  not  sleepy. 
The  room  was  close  and  warm,  and  he  undressed 
and  lay  down.  For  hours  he  lay  awake,  thinking, 
thinking  of  the  past  and  opening  windows  of  hope 
for  the  future.  Should  he  write  to  William?  No, 
it  would  do  no  good  and  might  lead  to  complica 
tions.  William  and  Celeste  might  as  well  think  of 
him  as  dead,  and  teach  the  child  to  forget  him.  A 
letter  from  him  might  upset  his  brother.  He  had 
promised  to  disappear,  and  he  would  keep  his  word. 
Besides,  the  budding  joy  of  the  new  life  depended 
upon  a  thorough  detachment  from  the  old.  It  was 
midnight  when  he  fell  asleep.  It  was  early  dawn 
when  he  waked.  He  knew  that  further  sleep  was 
impossible  and  he  got  up.  Why  should  he  wait 
longer?  Why  not  be  on  his  way  to  the  Rowland 
farm?  The  idea  appealed  to  him.  He  would  walk 
the  five  miles  through  the  country  instead  of  hiring 
a  conveyance,  as  he  at  first  intended.  He  could 
have  his  bag  sent  out  later. 

Dressing  and  descending  to  the  office,  he  found 
Sam  Lee  asleep  in  a  big  chair  behind  the  counter. 
Hearing  his  step,  the  clerk  waked  and  stood  up. 

' '  Early  bird, "  Sam  said,  drowsily.  ' '  I  guess  you're 
anxious  to  get  out  to  Rowland's.  Miss  Mary  said 
she  had  hired  you.  She  was  tickled  powerfully. 
There  is  a  drummer  that  I  got  to  call  now.  He  is 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

off  for  a  mountain  trip.  His  breakfast  will  be  ready 
in  twenty  minutes  and  I'll  have  yours  fixed  at  the 
same  time.  Have  you  hired  a  rig?" 

Charles  explained  that  he  intended  to  walk,  and 
made  arrangements  to  have  his  bag  forwarded.  The 
sun  was  just  rising  into  view  as  he  fared  forth,  fol 
lowing  the  clerk's  directions  as  to  the  way  along 
the  main-traveled  road  toward  the  east. 

The  five  miles  were  soon  traversed.  It  was  barely 
eight  o'clock  when  he  came  into  sight  of  the  Rowland 
home.  It  was  a  large,  old-fashioned  frame  building, 
having  two  floors.  It  had  once  been  painted  white 
as  to  the  weatherboarding  and  green  as  to  the  shut 
ters,  but  time  and  rain  had  reduced  the  walls  to 
gray  and  the  shutters  to  a  dark,  nondescript  color. 
There  was  a  wide  veranda  which  had  lost  part  of 
its  original  balustrade,  and  had  broken,  sagging 
steps  and  tall,  fluted  columns,  one  of  which  waa 
out  of  plumb,  owing  to  the  decay  of  the  timbers  at 
its  base.  Behind  the  house  Charles  noticed  a  rather 
extensive  stable  and  barns,  as  well  as  several  cabins 
which  had  been  occupied  by  former  slaves  in  the 
day  when  the  place  had  seen  the  height  of  its  pros 
perity.  There  was  a  lawn  in  front,  or  the  remains 
of  one,  and  the  brick  walk  was  moss-grown  and 
weed-covered  save  for  a  worn  path  in  the  center; 
what  was  once  a  carriage  drive  from  a  wide  gate  on 
one  side  had  quite  disappeared  under  a  wild  growth 
of  bushes. 

As  he  entered  the  gate  a  gray-haired  man  of  about 
seventy  years  of  age,  with  a  book  and  a  manuscript 
under  a  handless  arm,  came  out  of  the  house  and 
stood  on  the  veranda,  staring  blandly  at  him.  He 

132 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

wore  a  narrow  black  necktie,  and  a  long  broad 
cloth  frock  coat,  with  trousers  of  the  same  material. 
The  coat  was  threadbare,  the  trousers  baggy  and 
frayed  at  the  bottoms  of  the  legs.  He  stepped  for 
ward  and  smiled  agreeably  as  he  extended  his  hand 
to  Charles,  who  was  now  ascending  the  creaking  steps. 

"Mr.  Brown,  I  believe,"  he  said.  "My  daughter 
told  me  about  you  and  we  were  expecting  you.  I 
am  Mr.  Rowland.  She  has  gone  over  to  a  neighbor's 
for  a  minute  or  two.  Will  you  sit  down  here  or  go 
inside?  It  is  about  as  comfortable  here  in  the 
-morning  as  anywhere  about  the  house." 

"I'll  sit  here,  if  you  please,"  Charles  answered, 
now  noticing  for  the  first  time  a  deep  scar  under  the 
old  gentleman's  right  eye,  which  had  been  caused 
by  a  Northern  minie  ball. 

"Yes,  we  were  quite  pleased  to  secure  your  help," 
Rowland  went  on,  taking  a  chair  and  resting  his 
book  and  manuscript  on  his  gaunt  knees.  "We  were 
really  about  to  despair.  You  see,"  holding  up  his 
handless  wrist,  "that  I  am  quite  incapacitated  for 
rough  work,  so  I  spend  my  time  over  my  books  and 
writing.  I  am  preparing  a  rather  extensive  gene 
alogy  of  the  Rowland  family.  You  may  not  be  aware 
of  it,  sir,  but  it  is  certainly  a  fascinating  pursuit. 
You  never  know,  till  you  begin  such  research,  how 
many  of  a  name  are  in  existence.  I  have  written 
letters  to  more  than  two  thousand  persons,  and  had 
answers  from  a  good  many  of  more  or  less  importance. 
What  seems  strange  to  me  is  that  most  persons  are 
so  indifferent  on  the  subject.  It  seems  to  me  the 
more  worldly  goods  or  standing  they  have  the  less 
they  care  about  who  they  were  at  the  beginning." 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"It  must  be  interesting,"  Charles  agreed,  vaguely 
pleased  to  find  that  the  old  gentleman  was  so  kindly 
disposed  toward  him. 

"It  certainly  is,"  Rowland  went  on.  "I  always 
ask  strangers  the  question,  and  I'll  put  it  to  you. 
Do  you  happen  to  have  met  in  your  rounds  (I 
understand  that  you  have  been  a  showman)  any 
one  by  my  name?" 

"I  can't  recall  any  one  just  now,"  Charles  said. 

"Well,  I'm  not  at  all  surprised,"  Rowland  went 
on,  "for  the  name  is  not  a  common  one  except  in 
certain  spots.  Now  they  are  thick  in  some  of  the 
Southern  states.  There  was  a  governor  and  a 
general,  but  my  daughter  says  all  that  sounds  like 
bragging  of  our  blood.  She  was  looking  over  my 
work  one  day  and  said  that  I  had  not  been  so  careful 
to  record  Rowland  blacksmiths  and  carpenters  as 
Rowland  lawyers,  doctors,  and  the  like ;  but  I  reckon 
there  is  a  good  reason  for  that  discrepancy,  and  that 
is  that  the  lower  classes  don't  really  know  much 
about  their  forebears.  It  is  when  a  man  starts  to 
rise  in  the  world,  or  is  about  to  go  down,  that  he 
sees  the  value  of  family  history.  My  daughter  will 
tease  me.  The  last  thing  she  said  when  she  started 
away  at  breakfast  was  that  I  must  not  bore  you 
with  this  work  of  mine  if  you  came  while  she  was 
out.  I  see  her  now,  coming  across  the  field  over 
there.  She  is  worried  about  her  two  brothers.  They 
have  been  away  for  several  days,  and  she  went  over 
to  Dodd's  to  see  if  she  could  hear  anything  of  them. 
Keep  your  seat,  sir.  I  should  have  offered  you  some 
fresh  water  before  this.  I'll  have  Aunt  Zilla,  our 
cook,  bring  some  out  to  you." 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Glad  of  a  chance  to  change  the  subject, 
Charles  made  no  objection,  and  Rowland  stalked, 
in  his  slipshod  way,  into  the  sitting-room.  There 
he  met  the  servant  and  gave  the  order  for  the 
water. 

Charles  heard  a  veritable  African  snort.  "Who, 
me?  You  mean  me,  Marse  Andy?  Is  you  los'  yo' 
senses?  You  'spec'  me  ter  draw  water  en'  fetch  it 
in  fer  dat  new  fiel'-hand  wid  clothes  like  er  house- 
painter?  What's  he,  anyhow?  He  gwine  ter  do  his 
work,  en'  I'll  do  mine.  Huh,  I  say!" 

"Well,  then,  I'll  have  to  do  it  with  one  hand," 
Charles  was  mortified  to  overhear.  "This  is  his 
first  day,  Zilla.  He  has  not  set  in  yet.  Until  he 
does  he  is  a  guest  under  our  roof." 

"Well,  let  'im  set  in  now,  den,"  Zilla  cried.  "He 
ain't  de  preacher;  he  ain't  de  school-teacher;  he 
ain't  nuffen  but  er  rousterbout  circus  man." 

Charles  heard  the  sound  of  receding  footsteps 
toward  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  the  soft  slur  of 
the  old  man's  tread  as  he  returned. 

"Aunt  Zilla  appears  to  be  busy  back  there,"  he 
said,  blandly.  "We'll  walk  around  to  the  well  and 
draw  it  ourselves,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Deeply  chagrined,  Charles  accepted  the  offer.  The 
well  was  at  the  kitchen  door  and  Charles  lowered 
the  bucket  into  it.  As  he  was  drawing  it  up  Aunt 
Zilla,  who  was  a  portly  yellow  woman  of  forty, 
came  out  with  a  tin  dipper.  It  looked  as  if  she 
partially  regretted  her  show  of  temper,  for  she  had 
a  softened  look  as  she  extended  the  dipper  to  her 
master. 

Rowland  filled  it  and  offered  it  to  Charles,  but 
10  135 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

he  declined  to  drink  first,  and  as  a  matter  of 
mere  form  Rowland  drank  and  then  refilled  the 
dipper. 

"Young  miss  is  ercomin',"  Zilla  said,  turning 
toward  the  front.  ' '  I  wonder  is  she  done  hear  sumpin' 
erbout  de  boys  ?  Lawd !  Lawd !  what  dey  bofe  comin' 
to?" 

As  she  disappeared  around  the  corner  Rowland 
stroked  his  white  goatee  and  smiled  wearily.  "We 
have  to  handle  her  with  care,"  he  said.  "She  is  the 
only  help  we  have  now,  and  she  threatens  to  leave 
us  every  day.  She  is  getting  tyrannical.  They  are 
all  like  that." 

They  were  returning  to  the  veranda  when  Mary 
came  in  at  the  gate. 

"Put  the  table  things  on  the  line  to  dry,  Aunt 
Zilla ;  there  is  no  time  to  lose,  if  they  are  to  be  ironed 
to-day,"  Charles  heard  her  ordering,  in  a  hurried 
and  yet  kind  tone. 

He  noted  that  she  wore  a  somewhat  simpler  dress 
than  the  day  before,  a  plain  checked  gingham,  but 
it  was  most  becoming,  and  her  hat,  a  great  wide- 
brimmed  one,  woven  from  the  inner  husks  of  corn 
without  adornment  of  any  sort,  added  to  her  rare, 
flushed  beauty.  Being  in  the  shade  of  the  house,  she 
took  the  hat  off  and  held  it  in  one  hand  while  she 
offered  the  other  to  Charles. 

"So  you  didn't  fail  us,"  she  said,  but  she  seemed 
now  to  force  the  exquisite  smile  which  the  day  before 
had  been  so  spontaneous.  "I  was  almost  sure  you'd 
come  when  I  was  talking  to  you  at  the  store,  but 
when  I  got  home  and  saw  how  desolate  our  place 
looked  I  began  to  fear  it  would  bore  one  who  had 

136 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

traveled  about  a  great  deal,  as  you  must  have  done. 
Well,  if  you  don't  like  it,  I'll  excuse  you.  It  looks 
like  things  simply  will  not  go  right,  somehow."  Her 
face  had  fallen  into  pensive  solemnity,  her  pretty 
lip  was  drawn  tight  across  her  fine  teeth. 

"But  I  do  like  it  very,  very  much,"  Charles  heard 
himself  stammering.  "I  am  only  afraid  that  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  give  thorough  satisfaction  with  my 
work." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  all  right!"  Mary  smiled  a  stiff 
smile  again,  while  a  far-away  look  lay  in  her  eyes." 

"What  is  the  matter,  daughter?"  Rowland  asked, 
suddenly.  "Have  Lester  &  Hooker  been  bothering 
you  about  that  account  again?" 

"No,  father,  I  met  Mr.  Hooker,  but  he  did  not 
say  anything  about  it.  You  know  he  agreed  to  give 
us  another  month." 

"Then  something  else  has  happened,"  Rowland 
persisted,  still  staring  inquiringly. 

"No,  nothing,  father,  nothing.  I'm  a  little  tired, 
that's  all.  Come,  Mr.  Brown,  I  know  father  has 
not  shown  you  your  room  yet." 

They  left  the  old  gentleman  on  the  veranda,  eagerly 
scanning  a  page  of  his  manuscript,  and  Mary  led 
Charles  up  the  old-fashioned  stairs  with  its  walnut 
balustrade  and  battered  steps.  She  smiled  as  she 
explained  that  the  "Yankee  soldiers"  had  occupied 
the  house  during  the  war,  and  that  no  repairs  had 
been  made  since.  There  were  six  bedrooms  on  the 
floor  they  were  now  on,  and  the  one  at  the  end  over 
the  kitchen  was  to  be  Charles's.  She  led  him  into 
it.  It  was  very  attractive.  An  old-fashioned  ma 
hogany  wardrobe  stood  against  the  wall  near  the 

137 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

single  window,  which  was  draped  with  cheap  cotton- 
lace  curtains.  There  was  a  walnut  washstand  with 
a  white  marble  top  holding  a  white  bowl  and  pitcher, 
and  a  plain  mahogany  bureau.  There  was  an  open 
fireplace  which  was  filled  with  boughs  of  cedar.  Its 
hearth  had  just  been  whitewashed.  There  was  a 
table  of  old  oak  in  the  center  of  the  room,  holding 
some  books  and  an  old-fashioned  brass  candlestick. 
On  the  white  walls  in  various  sorts  of  frames  hung 
some  of  the  brilliant  print  pictures  which  were  popu 
lar  in  the  South  just  after  the  war.  In  a  corner 
stood  a  tall-posted  bed,  which,  with  its  snowy  pil 
lows  and  white  counterpane,  had  a  most  cool  and 
inviting  look. 

"Do  you  really  intend  this  for  me?"  Charles  asked. 
"But  you  mustn't  put  me  here,  you  know.  You 
have  no  idea  the  sort  of  bed  I've  been  sleeping  in. 
If  you  have  never  seen  a  bunk  in  a  circus  freight- 
car—" 

"All  the  more  reason  you  should  be  comfortable 
here  with  us,"  Mary  interrupted.  "As  it  is,  I'm 
afraid  you  will  want  to  quit  us.  It  is  awfully,  aw 
fully  dull  and  lonely  out  here — no  amusements  of 
any  sort.  Your  life  must  have  been  a  very  eventful 
and  exciting  one,  and  this,  by  contrast,  may  be 
anything  but  pleasant." 

"It  is  just  what  I  want,"  he  fairly  pleaded  now, 
as  their  probing  eyes  met  like  those  of  two  earnest 
children.  "I  am  sick  of  the  life  I  was  leading,  while 
this — this  somehow  seems  like—  '  He  found  himself 
unable  to  formulate  what  he  was  trying  to  say,  and 
she  laughed  merrily. 

' '  I  hope  it  is  not  due  to  your  fibbing  that  you  are 

138 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

all  tangled  up,"  she  said.  "Well,  let's  go  down 
stairs.  I've  got  to  help  Zilla  get  dinner  ready,  and 
then  I'll  show  you  our  corn  and  cotton.  You  won't 
want  to  begin  work  till  to-morrow  morning,  of 
course." 

"But  why?"  he  blandly  inquired,  as  they  were 
going  down  the  stairs. 

"Well,"  she  returned,  "people  usually  begin  in 
the  morning  when  they  hire  out,  and  it  will  take  you 
one  afternoon  at  least  to  get  the  lay  of  the  land  and 
see  what  is  to  be  done." 

"I  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  at  something  right 
away,"  he  said.  "Besides,  you  remember  that  you 
told  me  your  crops  were  suffering  for  lack  of  atten 
tion." 

She  laughed  again.  "I  wonder  if  I  have  run  across 
a  real  masculine  curiosity,"  she  said.  She  paused  on 
the  step  and  faced  him,  and  he  had  again  that  mag 
netic  sensation  of  nearness  to  her  which  he  had  experi 
enced  at  the  store  the  day  before.  "You  see,"  she 
continued,  "out  here  we  have  to  drive  men  to  work, 
negroes  and  whites,  and  you  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were 
a  game  to  be  played.  I  wonder  if  you  really  know 
what  you  are  about  to  tackle.  The  sun  is  hot  enough 
some  days  to  bake  a  potato,  and  there  is  no  sort  of 
shade  in  our  fields." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  mind  the  sun  a  bit,"  he 
said.  "It  is  much  cooler  here  than  down  in  Florida 
where  we  were  showing,  and  even  there  I  enjoyed 
the  days  we  had  to  work  in  the  open  more  than  those 
spent  on  the  cars." 

"Oh,  well,  we  shall  see,"  she  said,  smiling  again. 
They  were  at  the  veranda  now,  and  she  added: 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Wait  here  and  I'll  see  Aunt  Zilla,  and  then  we'D 
walk  down  to  the  cotton-field  that  is  suffering  the 
most  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  hoeing  and  weed- 
pulling.  Then  if  you  really  are  daft  about  working, 
you  may  start  after  dinner." 


CHAPTER  V 

/""CHARLES  sat  down  on  the  veranda  and  Mary 
>*•*  turned  away.  Rowland  was  bent  over  his 
writing  and  did  not  look  up,  so  deeply  was  he  ab 
sorbed  in  what  he  was  recording.  He  had  a  small 
bottle  of  ink  on  the  floor  at  his  side,  into  which  he 
dipped  an  old  pen  which  was  so  sharp  at  the  point 
that  it  kept  sticking  into  the  cheap  paper  he  was 
using.  Mary  reappeared  very  soon,  now  wearing 
her  becoming  hat  and  a  great  pair  of  cotton  gloves. 

"Father,"  she  said,  teasingly,  as  she  stood  beside 
him,  a  hand  on  his  threadbare  coat  at  the  shoulder, ' '  I 
saw  a  list  of  men  in  the  paper  the  other  day  that 
were  being  sent  to  the  chain-gang  for  all  sorts  of 
crimes.  There  was  a  Jasper  Rowland  in  the  lot,  and 
his  son  Thomas.  Had  you  not  better  write  to  them  ? 
Perhaps  they  may  furnish  an  important  link  in  our 
history." 

Rowland  looked  up  and  smiled  indulgently  at  her 
and  then  at  Charles.  "She  is  always  poking  fun 
at  me  like  that,"  he  said.  "Of  course  there  are  off 
shoots  from  the  main  tree  like  those  she  mentions, 
but  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  they  are  rare.  Besides,  such 
cases  often  come  from  families  who  have  once  been 
high  up  in  the  world.  I  am  afraid  that  the  idleness 
and  affluence  of  the  old  slave  period  have  left  their 

141 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 
t 

stamp  on  man\  of  our  best  families.  I  know  that 
my  own  boys — " 

"Stop,  father!"  and  Mary  actually  put  her  gloved 
hand  over  the  old  man's  lips.  "You  must  not  bring 
Kenneth  and  Martin  into  such  a  classification.  I 
know  what  you  started  to  say,  and  you  shall  not  to 
Mr.  Brown.  My  brothers  are  idle,  fun-loving,  and 
wild,  but  they  are  not  dishonorable." 

"Oh,  well,  have  it  your  way,"  Rowland  gave  in. 
"I  think  they  are  all  right  in  many  ways,  but  they 
are  worrying  the  life  out  of  you  by  the  way  they  are 
carrying  on.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  they  had  a  high 
sense  of  honor,  they — " 

"Now,  Mr.  Brown,"  Mary  said,  quickly,  "I  won't 
listen  to  what  he  is  saying.  You'll  get  the  idea  pres 
ently  that  my  poor  brothers  are  worse  than  thieves." 

"Oh  no,"  Charles  tried  to  say,  lightly,  as  they 
went  down  the  steps  and  turned  toward  the  side 
of  the  house.  "I'm  sure  I  understand  about  your 
brothers." 

To  his  surprise,  Mary's  face  had  clouded  over. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  were  about  to  shed  tears,  for  her 
wondrous  eyes  were  misty.  He  heard  her  sigh,  and 
she  was  silent  for  several  minutes  as  they  went  down 
the  path  toward  the  cotton-field.  Presently  she 
looked  straight  into  his  face.  She  tried  to  smile,  and 
then  gave  up  the  attempt  with  a  little  shake  of  her 
head. 

' '  I  really  am  in  great,  great  trouble  over  my  broth 
ers,"  she  faltered.  "I  didn't  want  to  tell  my  father, 
for  it  will  do  no  good  and  it  seems  to  me  that  he  is 
already  losing  his  natural  love  for  them;  but  this 
morning  I  heard  from  Mrs.  Dodd  that  they  were 

142 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

over  at  Carlin  last  night,  cutting  up  frightfully — 
drinking,  gambling,  and  what  not.  Oh,  I  don't  know 
how  I  can  bear  much  more  of  it.  Do  you  know, 
Mr.  Brown,  that  since  my  mother's  death  these 
boys,  although  they  are  older  than  I  am,  have 
seemed  almost  like  sons  of  mine?  I  worry,  worry, 
worry.  I  lie  awake  night  after  night  when  they 
are  away  like  this,  and  even  when  they  are  here  I 
watch  their  every  look  and  tone  to  see  if — if  they 
are  about  to  break  out  again.  I'll  have  gray  hairs 
— I  know  I  shall — and  that  very  soon." 

A  keen  pang  of  remorse  passed  through  the 
listening  wanderer.  He  was  recalling  certain  inci 
dents  in  his  own  life,  the  anxiety  and  tears  of  his 
own  mother  just  prior  to  her  death.  For  a  moment 
he  was  almost  oblivious  of  the  sweet  face  into  which 
he  was  blankly  staring.  But  his  expression  must 
have  been  sympathetic,  for  Mary  suddenly  remarked : 

"I  don't  know  why  I  am  talking  so  freely  with 
you  about  them,  Mr.  Brown.  I  really  never  mention 
my  brothers  to  my  best  friends — their  faults,  I  mean 
— but  here  I  am  telling  you  the  worst  about  them. 
You  seem  wonderfully  gentle  and  sympathetic  and 
— and — "  She  choked  up,  wiped  her  fluttering  lips 
with  her  gloved  hand  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"I  want  to  aid  you,"  he  said,  deeply  moved, 
*'and  I  will  do  everything  in  my  power.  Look  at 
me,  Miss  Rowland.  I  don't  want  to  pass  for  better 
than  I  am.  I  want  to  start  right  with  you.  The 
habits  your  brothers  have  were  once  my  own.  I 
owe  my  wandering  life  to  them.  For  a  year  I  have 
been  free  from  the  old  habits.  I  hope  I  shall  remain 
so.  I  sometimes  feel  that  I  shall  never,  never  fall 

U3 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

back.  I  feel  so  now  more  strongly  than  I  ever  did, 
because  your  trouble  shows  me  so  plainly  how  terribly 
wrong  I  was." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  you 
once  were,"  Mary  said,  earnestly.  "It  is  what  you 
are  now  that  counts.  I  understand  you  better  than 
I  did  at  first.  I  see  why  you  are  living  as  you  are, 
away  from  kindred  and  friends,  and  I  am  glad  you 
told  me.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  trample  an  old  weak 
ness  underfoot  and  rise  up  on  it.  Oh,  do  you  know, 
what  you  say  makes  me  hope  that  my  brothers, 
too,  may  change !  Oh,  they  must,  they  must !  They 
cannot  go  on  as  they  are." 

Nothing  more  was  said  till  they  reached  the  cotton- 
field,  which  was  a  level  fertile  tract  of  land  contain 
ing  about  ten  acres.  Beyond  it  lay  another  tract 
about  the  same  size,  which  was  planted  in  corn, 
while  another  smaller  field  adjoining  was  given  over 
to  wheat.  Under  a  tree  at  the  side  of  the  path  lay 
some  hoes,  and  Mary  took  one  and  gave  him  another. 

"See,  this  is  all  you  have  to  do,"  she  began, 
lightly,  going  to  the  first  cotton-plant  in  the  nearest 
row  and  cutting  the  weeds  about  it  with  the  hoe. 
"You  can  'kill  two  birds  with  one  stone' — loosen 
up  the  earth's  surface  and  destroy  the  weeds  at  the 
same  time.  I'm  sure  you  don't  have  to  be  shown 
which  is  the  cotton." 

"Oh  no!  I  see  that  plainly,"  and  with  the  other 
hoe  Charles  set  in  on  the  next  row,  and  side  by  side 
they  worked  forward. 

"Splendid!  splendid!"  Mary  cried,  pausing  and 
smiling  at  him  from  her  sweet,  flushed  face.  "Surely 
you  have  used  a  hoe  before  this." 

i44 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Only  once,  in  a  little  garden  at  a  summer  re 
sort,"  he  said.  "Then  it  was  cabbages  and  beans." 

"But  you  really  are  beating  me!"  she  cried,  "and 
it  is  better  done.  See!  I've  left  some  and  you 
haven't.  Your  row  is  as  clean  as  a  barn  floor  before 
a  dance,  and  your  stroke  is  deep  and  firm." 

They  worked  to  the  ends  of  the  two  rows  and 
were  about  to  start  back  when  an  iron  bell  on  a  post 
at  the  kitchen  door  rang.  They  saw  Zilla  with  her 
hand  on  its  rope,  staring  at  them  fixedly. 

"That  is  for  us,"  Mary  explained.  "Dinner  is 
ready,  and  Aunt  Zilla  has  a  fit  when  anybody's 
late.  We  all  try  to  obey  that  bell.  It  was  put 
there  long  before  the  war.  It  was  used — you  see 
it  is  a  large  one — to  call  up  the  slaves.  My  grand 
father  had  a  regular  code  of  signals  which  he  used 
to  communicate  with  his  overseer.  In  that  day 
there  were  negro  uprisings,  slave  runaways  to  be 
stopped,  and  all  sorts  of  outlandish  things  that  are 
now  out  of  date.  Girls  like  me,  for  instance,  never 
worked  in  the  field  those  days,  but  it  is  better  this 
way.  I  know  I  am  stronger  and  more  healthy  than 
my  mother  was,  and  if  I  had  less  to  worry  about  I 
think  I  should  be  happier,  for  my  mother  was  not 
a  happy  woman.  I  am  afraid  that  she  and  my 
father  were  not  as  well  mated  as  they  ought  to  have 
been.  I  think  the  match  was  made  by  the  parents 
on  both  sides,  a  sort  of  marriage  of  convenience  to 
tie  some  property  together." 

When  they  were  nearing  the  kitchen  door  Charles 
was  suddenly  embarrassed  by  the  thought  that  he 
might  be  expected  to  dine  with  the  family;  he  felt 
that  he  was  unfit  to  sit  at  table  with  them  in  his 

US 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

uncouth  clothing.    Mary  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts, 
for  she  said: 

"Don't  change  your  clothes.  We  have  no  cere 
mony  here  in  the  working  period.  We  have  no  time 
for  style.  Run  up  to  your  room  and  get  the  dust 
off  your  face  and  hands,  and  come  right  down.  Don't 
make  Zilla  mad,  for  all  you  do." 

Coming  down,  presently,  Charles  felt  a  little 
easier,  for  Mary  was  already  at  the  table  in  the 
same  dress  she  had  worn  in  the  field.  She  was 
drinking  milk  and  eating  hot  biscuits  and  fried 
spring  chicken. 

"You  see  I  didn't  wait  for  you,"  she  laughed, 
"and  you  must  not  wait  for  any  one  in  the  future, 
either.  When  the  bell  rings  sit  down  and  eat.  It 
is  the  only  way.  Father  is  not  coming,  you  see. 
He  has  struck  another  Rowland,  a  loyalist  in  the 
Revolution.  Do  you  know,  father  went  all  the  way 
to  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  last  summer,  to  con 
sult  an  old  will.  He  spent  money  we  needed  to 
pay  farm-hands  with,  but  he  had  a  glorious  time. 
He  was  entertained  in  an  old  historic  mansion  which 
had  belonged  to  some  of  the  Rowlands,  and  brought 
home  photographs  of  it,  and  of  old  tombstones  and 
maps  of  the  first  settlers.  Oh,  he'll  bore  the  life 
out  of  you  if  you  let  him!  He  has  never  been  sat 
down  on  but  once.  Old  Judge  Warner,  who  went 
through  the  war  with  father,  was  with  us  overnight 
not  long  ago,  and  after  supper  father  got  out  his 
charts,  books,  coats  of  arms  and  began.  The  judge 
listened  for  a  while,  then  suddenly  said: 

"Say,  Andy,  I'm  going  to  be  frank  with  you.  I 
never  have  been  interested  in  my  own  ancestry. 

146 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

Wouldn't  it  seem  odd  to  you  if  I  was  interested  in 

yours?'1 

Charles  laughed  heartily,  for  the  girl  had  man 
aged  to  put  him  quite  at  his  ease.  Besides,  he  was 
ravenously  hungry  and  Zilla  had  brought  a  big 
platter  of  fried  chicken  and  a  plate  heaping  with 
hot  biscuits  and  put  them  before  him.  A  pot  of 
coffee  stood  near  him,  from  which  he  was  expected 
to  help  himself.  A  door  of  the  room  was  open, 
showing  a  flower-garden  full  of  blooming  rose 
bushes.  The  midday  sun  beat  down  on  it.  Bees 
were  hovering  over  the  flowers.  In  some  apple- 
trees  close  to  the  door  birds  were  flitting  about  and 
chirping.  A  rooster  was  crowing  lustily  at  the  barn ; 
the  cawing  of  a  crow  came  across  the  fields.  To  the 
wanderer  all  nature  seemed  to  be  swelling,  bursting 
with  joy.  As  he  looked  into  the  face  of  the  girl 
across  the  table  something  seemed  to  tell  him  that 
a  veritable  new  life  had  begun  for  him,  and  that  she, 
in  some  way,  was  responsible  for  it.  He  was  full  of 
gratitude  to  her. 

Dinner  over,  they  rose  from  the  table  together. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she  questioned. 
"I  must  tell  you  that  we  always  take  at  least  an 
hour  for  dinner,  and  on  very  hot  days  we  don't  work 
till  later  in  the  afternoon." 

"It  is  too  much  fun  to  stay  away  from  it,"  he 
laughed.  "It  is  like  playing  a  new  game." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door;  she  stepped  down 
into  the  yard.  "I  must  show  you  a  few  other 
things,"  she  said.  "That  is  the  blacksmith's  shop 
adjoining  the  smoke-house.  The  shop  used  to  be 
a  means  of  making  money.  We  owned  an  old  slave 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

who  was  considered  the  best  blacksmith  in  the 
county.  He  used  to  shoe  horses  and  mend  carriages 
and  wagons,  but  now  the  shop  is  seldom  used  except 
for  the  sharpening  of  tools.  Then  we  hire  a  black 
smith  to  come  out  from  Carlin.  But  he  gets  three 
dollars  a  day,  and  so  we  only  have  him  about  twice 
a  year." 

They  were  at  the  old  shop  now,  and  Mary  drew 
the  great  sliding-door  open.  To  her  surprise,  Charles 
stepped  in,  examined  the  big  bellows,  forge,  and 
anvil  with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  what  he  was 
about. 

' '  Everything  is  here, ' '  he  said, ' '  and  in  good  order. ' ' 

"What  do  you  know  about  a  shop?"  Mary  asked, 
with  a  smile. 

"More  than  I  do  about  farming,"  he  answered. 
"The  show  I  was  with  carried  its  own  shop,  and 
now  and  then  I  used  to  work  in  it  as  an  assistant. 
If  you  will  let  me,  the  first  rainy  day  that  comes 
I'll  sharpen  all  the  tools." 

' '  Oh,  can  you — will  you  ?"  she  cried.  ' '  That  would 
be  splendid.  But  if  it  gets  out  the  neighbors  will 
bore  you  to  death  with  requests  for  this  or  that. 
You  couldn't  shoe  a  horse,  could  you?" 

"Oh  yes.  That  is  simple  enough,"  he  replied, 
indifferently.  "The  big  draft-horses  we  used  had 
to  be  double  shod,  and  I  learned  how  to  do  it." 

At  the  door  of  the  shop  they  parted.  Charles 
went  back  to  the  cotton-field  and  resumed  his  work 
there.  All  the  afternoon  he  toiled.  Digging  the 
mellow  soil  and  cutting  down  the  succulent  weeds 
and  crab-grass  was  a  fascinating  pastime  rather 
than  a  disagreeable  task.  The  sun  sank  behind  the 

148 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

hills.  The  dusk  fell  over  the  land.  Presently  he 
looked  up  and  saw  Mary  at  the  end  of  the  row  which 
he  was  finishing. 

"This  won't  do,"  she  chided  him.  "In  a  little 
while  it  will  be  too  dark.  Didn't  you  hear  the  bell?" 

He  had  not,  and  he  stared  at  her,  abashed. 

"Well,  come  on,"  she  said,  sweetly.  "Aunt  Zilla 
is  not  angry.  It  is  such  an  odd  thing  to  see  a  man 
willing  to  work  that  she  was  laughing  over  it.  I 
think  she  likes  you  already,  and  it  is  queer,  for  she 
does  not  take  to  strangers  readily.  She  is  a  close 
observer  and  she  says  that  you  have  a  sad,  lonely 
look  about  the  eyes.  I  didn't  agree  with  her,  for 
you  seem  very  cheerful  to  me.  You  are  not — not 
homesick,  or — or  anything  of  that  sort,  are  you, 
Mr.  Brown?" 

"I  think  not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "How  could 
I  be  homesick,  for  I  have  no  home?" 

"Then  Aunt  Zilla  may  be  right,"  Mary  observed, 
quietly.  "You  may  be  sad  because  you  have  no 
home;  perhaps  that  is  what  she  reads  in  your  face. 
Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  you  do  seem  to  look 
lonely  and  isolated.  Somehow  I  can't  imagine  your 
being  contented  here  with  us.  You  are  so  different,' 
somehow,  from  our  young  men.  I  don't  know  in 
what  way,  particularly,  but  you  are  different,  and 
so  I  am  actually  afraid  that  you  will  decide  to — to 
go  somewhere  else.  If  you  do,  Mr.  Brown,  don't 
let  anything  I  have  said  about — about  needing  your 
help  stop  you." 

They  were  on  the  path  approaching  the  house; 
he  paused  suddenly,  and  they  faced  each  other. 
"I  wish  I  could  remove  those  ideas  from  your  mind 

I4Q 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

for  good  and  all,  Miss  Rowland,"  he  said,  almost 
huskily,  in  his  earnestness.  "It  is  the  second  time 
you  have  mentioned  the  subject  and  I  want  you 
to  understand  the  truth.  My  life  for  the  last  year 
has  been  one  of  restless  torment.  I  gave  up  traveling 
with  the  circus  to  settle  down  on  a  farm.  Something 
told  me  I  would  like  it,  but  nothing  told  me  that  I 
would  find  work  with  such  kind  persons  as  you  and- 
your  father.  The  truth  is,  I  am  so  contented  here 
that  I  am  afraid" — he  was  laughing  now — "that  I 
shall  wake  up  and  find  myself  in  that  rumbling 
freight-train  again,  with  canvas  to  unload,  ropes  to 
stretch,  and  stakes  to  drive." 

"Well,  I'll  not  bring  it  up  again,"  she  promised, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I  wouldn't  have  done  it,  but 
Zilla  set  me  thinking  on  that  line.  I  do  want  you 
to  feel  at  home  here,  and  it  is  not  all  selfishness, 
either.  I've  had  trouble — I'm  having  plenty  of  it 
now — and  somehow  I  feel  that  you  have  had  more 
than  your  share  somehow,  somewhere." 

The  words  were  half  tentative;  she  eyed  him 
expectantly,  but  he  made  no  response.  They  were 
at  the  veranda  now,  and  he  turned  into  the  hall  and 
went  up  to  his  room.  He  found  that  his  bag  had 
come,  and,  quickly  putting  on  the  suit  of  clothes  it 
contained,  he  hurried  down.  The  suit  was  a  good, 
well-fitting  one,  bought  with  his  old  taste  for  such 
things,  and  in  the  lamplight  he  presented  quite  a 
changed  appearance.  He  remarked  the  all  but  sur 
prised  look  in  Mary's  face  when  he  met  lier  in  the 
dining-room,  but  she  made  no  comment.  She  had 
not  changed  her  dress,  and  was  waiting  for  him  in 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

150  * 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Father  has  eaten  and  gone  back  to  his  books," 
she  said.  "He  takes  very  little  nourishment.  That 
is  one  good  thing  in  ancestry  worship,  it  saves  food 
in  his  case.  He  can  live  on  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of 
milk  a  day  if  he  is  on  the  track  of  a  fresh  twig  for 
our  tree." 

When  supper  was  over  they  went  out  to  the  front 
veranda.  Leaving  Charles  seated  on  the  end  of  it, 
Mary  went  into  the  big  parlor  behind  him.  He 
saw  the  light  flash  up  as  she  struck  a  match  and  ap 
plied  it  to  a  lamp.  A  moment  later  he  heard  her 
playing  the  old  piano.  Its  tone  was  sweet  and  her 
touch  good.  She  was  playing  old  plantation  melo 
dies,  some  of  which  he  had  heard  before,  and  a  won 
derful  sense  of  peace  and  restfulness  crept  over  him. 
Presently,  as  if  drawn  by  the  music,  Rowland  rose 
from  a  rustic  seat  under  an  oak  on  the  lawn  and  came 
to  him. 

"She  learned  that  from  her  mother,"  the  old  man 
whispered.  "My  wife  was  graduated  at  a  Virginia 
college  for  young  ladies,  and  in  her  day  was  con 
sidered  a  fine  performer.  Mary  sings,  too,  but — 
There,  she  is  beginning  now." 

He  checked  himself,  for  his  daughter  was  singing 
an  old  hymn,  and  Charles  thought  her  voice  was 
wonderfully  sweet  and  sympathetic.  But  it  sud 
denly  quivered,  a  lump  seemed  to  rise  into  her 
throat,  and  she  stopped.  There  was  stillness  for  a 
moment,  then  Charles  heard  Zilla's  voice. 

' '  Don't  give  way  lak  dat,  missie !' '  she  said.  * '  Raise 
yo'  pretty  haid  up.  Dem  boys  is  gwine  ter  come 
thoo  dis  spree  same  as  de  rest  of  'um.  Don't  give 
up,  chile.  01'  Zilla  gwine  ter  go  'stracted  if  you  do, 
,il  1 5 1 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

You  is  too  young  en'  sweet  en'  lightsome  ter  give 
down  lak  dat." 

"It  is  those  boys,"  Rowland  muttered.  "She's 
like  her  mother  was,  full  of  worry  when  they  start 
to  cut  up.  As  for  me,  you  see,  I  know  that  wild 
oats  must  be  sown.  I  certainly  ought  to  know,  for 
I  cut  a  wide  swath  in  my  young  day.  It  must  run 
in  our  blood.  There  was  a  young  Sir  George  Row 
land  among  the  first  settlers  in  South  Carolina,  and, 
judging  from  his  will,  of  which  I  have  a  copy,  he 
was  as  dissolute  and  extravagant  as  a  royal  prince. 
Yes,  yes,  blood  will  tell,  and  history  is  only  repeating 
itself  in  my  boys." 

He  turned  into  the  parlor.  Charles  heard  his 
voice  gently  admonishing  his  daughter,  joined  to 
that  of  Aunt  Zilla,  and  presently  Mary  was  heard 
ascending  the  stairs  to  her  room.  She  had  a  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand,  and  Charles  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  when  she  was  half-way  up  the  flight.  She 
looked  to  him  like  an  old  picture  of  Colonial  days; 
the  light  elongated  her  figure  and  gave  to  her  trim 
gown  the  effect  of  an  elaborate  train.  He  was  sure 
that  the  impression  he  had  of  her  at  that  instant 
would  never  leave  him. 

Saying  good  night  to  Rowland,  Charles  went  up 
to  his  room  and  undressed.  A  few  minutes  before 
he  had  been  conscious  of  a  sense  of  infinite  peace 
and  content,  but  already  the  feeling  was  gone.  In 
its  place  was  a  growing  desire  to  lift  the  sinister 
shadow  that  hung  over  the  young  girl.  He  could 
hear  her  soft  step  in  her  room  across  the  hall.  He 
had  put  out  his  light  and  now  saw  from  his  window 
that  old  Rowland  was  still  strolling  about  the  lawn. 

152 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Presently  all  was  still  in  Mary's  room.  He  was  very 
tired,  but  his  brain  was  too  active  for  sleep.  The 
long  straight  rows  of  cotton-plants  haunted  his  mind. 
In  thought  he  was  cutting  out  the  weeds  with  Mary 
at  his  side.  He  heard  again  her  sweet,  merry  com 
ments  and  wise  suggestions;  he  saw  the  wondrous 
lights  and  shadows  in  her  beauteous  face  and  the 
moving  grace  of  her  form.  He  was  her  servant; 
she  belonged  to  the  social  class  which  he  had  re 
nounced  forever.  Owing  to  the  blight  upon  his 
name  and  character,  he  could  never  aspire  to  be 
more  than  a  laborer  on  her  father's  farm,  but  it 
didn't  matter.  Nothing  mattered  but  her  happiness, 
and  he  told  himself  that  she  should  have  happiness 
if  he  died  to  give  it  to  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  waked  before  the  sun  was  quite  up  the  next 
morning.  The  pale  light  reflected  from  the 
eastern  sky  was  creeping  in  at  the  windows  when 
he  opened  his  eyes.  His  mind  was  not  clear,  and 
at  first  he  thought  he  was  in  his  room  at  his  old 
home.  In  a  half-dreaming  state  he  fancied  Michael 
was  at  the  door,  telling  him  it  was  time  to  rise  and 
catch  a  train.  Next  he  thought  he  heard  Ruth's 
voice  calling  to  him,  as  she  was  wont  to  do  at  times 
before  she  was  out  of  bed.  Then  the  vague  outlines 
of  the  old  furniture  took  clearer  shape  and  he  sat 
up.  In  a  flash  his  new  life  had  reopened  before  him. 
He  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  down-stairs.  The 
front  door  was  open,  and  the  dewy  lawn  lay  in  the 
yellowing  light.  The  peak  of  the  nearest  mountain 
pierced  the  fleecy  clouds.  He  was  turning  around 
the  house  to  go  to  the  cotton-field  when  the  blind  of 
Mary's  room  was  thrown  open  and  she  looked  down 
and  smiled. 

"Good  morning!"  she  cried.  "I  wonder  if  you 
are  headed  for  that  cotton-patch?" 

He  answered  that  he  was,  and  she  laughed. 

"Not  before  you  have  your  breakfast,"  she  com 
manded.  "That  is  against  the  rules.  It  will  be 
ready  soon.  Wait  for  me.  I'm  coming  right  down." 

154 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

He  went  to  the  veranda  and  saw  her  descending. 
When  she  came  out  into  the  full  light  from  the 
shadowy  house  he  remarked  the  lines  of  care  in  her 
face,  and  they  threw  a  damper  on  his  spirits. 

"How  did  you  rest?"  she  asked. 

"Very  well,"  he  returned,  "but  I  am  afraid  that 
you  did  not." 

She  was  silent,  her  head  downcast,  and  he  won 
dered  over  the  impulse  that  had  emboldened  him 
to  make  such  a  personal  comment.  He  was  about 
to  beg  her  pardon,  when  she  raised  her  face  and 
looked  at  him  confidingly. 

"Oh,  I  know  I  show  it,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  ex 
claimed,  "but  I  can't  help  it.  I've  been  half  crazy 
all  night  long.  I  slept  only  a  few  minutes  at  a  time, 
and  even  in  my  sleep  my  fears  clung  to  me.  It  is 
my  brothers.  I  have  worried  over  them  before,  but 
never  like  this.  From  what  I  heard  yesterday  the 
spree  they  are  on  is  the  worst  they  ever  had.  They 
were  with  their  vilest  associates,  moonshiners  and 
gamblers,  over  at  Carlin,  drinking  harder  than  ever 
before." 

Here  Zilla  came  to  the  front  door.  Catching  her 
mistress's  eye,  she  cried  out,  excitedly :  "Young  miss, 
I  see  er  hoss  en*  buggy  'way  down  de  road.  It  got 
two  mens  in  it.  Looks  ter  me  like  de  boys.  Dey  is 
whippin'  de  hoss  powerful  en'  ercomin'  fast." 

Ascending  the  veranda  steps,  Mary  looked  down 
the  main  road  toward  Carlin.  "Yes,  it  is  my  broth 
ers,"  she  said,  frowning.  "Why  they  are  hurrying 
so  I  can't  make  out.  The  horse  looks  as  if  it  is  about 
to  drop." 

She  said  no  more,  but  hastened  to  the  front  gate, 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

where  she  stood,  her  tense  hands  on  the  latch,  wait 
ing  for  the  vehicle  to  arrive.  In  a  moment  a  panting, 
foaming  bay  horse  was  reined  in  at  the  gate  and  the 
two  young  men  sprang  down  from  a  ramshackle  buggy. 

"Where  is  father?"  Kenneth,  the  older,  a  tall, 
dark  young  man,  asked,  hurriedly. 

"He  is  in  the  library,  I  think,"  his  sister  answered, 
"Kensy,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!"  he  cried,  impatiently,  a  wild 
look  in  his  eyes.  "Keep  the  horse  there  ready, 
Martin.  But  never  mind.  What's  the  use?  It  is 
all  in.  We'll  have  to  leave  the  main  road,  anyway. 
We  must  skip  for  the  mountains." 

"Oh,  brother,  brother  Kensy,  what  is  it?"  Mary 
cried,  in  sheer  terror,  as  she  clutched  his  arm. 

Drawing  it  from  her  impatiently,  even  roughly, 
he  cried  out  to  Zilla:  "Call  father!  Hurry!  No,  I'll 
find  him." 

"Oh,  Martin,  Martin,  what  is  it?"  and  Mary 
turned  to  her  younger  brother,  who  was  short,  rather 
frail-looking,  and  had  blue  eyes  and  reddish  hair. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  said,  his  glance  following 
Kenneth  into  the  house.  "Don't  ask  me,  sis.  It  is 
all  right." 

"But  I  know  something  has  gone  wrong!"  Mary 
cried.  "You  and  Kensy  look  it;  you  can't  hide  it. 
What  is  it?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  lifted  his  brows,  and 
then  said,  reluctantly:  "Well,  we  got  in  a  little 
scrape,  that's  all,  and  had  to  make  a  break  to  get 
away.  The  sheriff  and  a  deputy  are  after  us." 

"After  you!  after  you!"  Mary  gasped.  "What 
have  you  done?" 

156 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Martin  hesitated  sullenly,  his  eyes  on  the  grass. 

"Tell  yo'  sister  de  trufe,  boy,"  Aunt  Zilla  sud 
denly  broke  in.  "Be  ershamed  er  yo'se'f,  keepin'  'er 
awake  all  night  wid  worry.  Tell  'er  what's  de  mat 
ter.  Don't  yer  see  she's  half  'stracted  over  yo-all's 
doin's?" 

"Oh,  well,"  he  responded,  "it  was  a  little  shooting- 
scrape.  Ken  and  Tobe  Keith  had  a  dispute  in 
Gardener's  pool-room  about  an  hour  ago.  Tobe 
drew  a  knife.  Some  say  he  didn't,  but  I  saw  it; 
I'm  sure  I  saw  it.  I  grabbed  him  around  the  waist, 
and — well,  Ken  was  a  little  full  and  had  a  gun,  and 
while  I  and  Tobe  were  wrestling  he  fired." 

"And  killed  him!"  Mary  cried.  "Oh  God,  have 
mercy!" 

"No,  no,  don't  be  a  fool,  sis!  Please  don't!  He 
was  just  wounded  slightly,  that's  all." 

"But  why  did  you  run  away,  then?"  Mary's 
pale  lips  shook  as  the  words  dropped  from  them. 

"Because,"  he  frowned  —  "because  some  of  the 
mountain  boys  advised  us  to,  and  Sheriff  Frazier 
lived  around  the  corner  and. had  heard  the  shots.' 
This  horse  and  buggy  was  loaned  to  us  by  Steve 
Pinkney.  He'll  be  here  after  them.  Zilla,  feed 
and  water  the  horse,  please.  We've  got  to  get  away 
in  the  mountains  till — till  we  find  out  how  Keith  is." 

Mary  started  to  say  something,  but  choked  up. 
She  put  her  arm  about  her  brother's  neck,  but  he 
gently  took  it  down. 

"Don't  make  it  worse  than  it  is,  sis  dear,"  he 
faltered.  "We  are  in  trouble,  big  trouble,  this  time, 
but  we  hardly  knew  what  we  were  doing.  If  the 
fellow  lives,  we  will — " 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

"If  he  lives!   My  God!  if  he  lives!"  Mary  moaned. 

Her  father  and  her  older  brother  were  coming 
out  on  the  veranda  now.  The  old  gentleman  had 
a  book  and  manuscript  under  his  handless  arm. 
Charles  noted  that  he  was  not  even  pale,  though  a 
certain  expression  of  irritation  rested  on  his  patrician 
features. 

"Yes,  leave  the  horse,"  he  was  saying.  "Get  into 
the  mountains.  As  you  say,  you  know  a  good  hiding- 
place.  I'll  remember  the  directions  to  it,  and  we'll 
get  food  to  you  somehow  or  other.  It  may  not  be 
serious.  The  scoundrel  was  attacking  you  with  a 
knife,  you  think?" 

"Martin  thought  so,"  Kenneth  answered,  "but 
I'm  not  sure  of  it  now.  Steve  Pinkney  says  Martin 
was  mistaken,  and  that  is  why  he  advised  us  to  run. 
I  was  drinking.  My  nerves  are  all  shattered.  I  got 
mad  when  I  saw  Keith  and  Martin  struggling,  and 
fired  before  I  thought.  I'm  sorry,  but  it  is  too  late 
now.  We  must  get  away." 

"Yes,  and  before  somebody  sees  you  here,"  Row 
land  said.  "Are  you  hungry?" 

"Yes,  but  we  can't  wait,"  Kenneth  answered. 
"Come  on,  Martin." 

Mary  had  run  to  her  older  brother.  She  held 
out  her  arms;  she  was  sobbing  in  her  white  fluttering 
throat.  He  took  her  into  his  embrace,  drew  her 
bare  head  to  his  shoulder,  and  stroked  her  hair. 

"We  are  bad  boys,  sis  dear,"  he  said,  tenderly. 
"We  have  not  treated  you  right;  no  one  knows 
that  better  than  Martin  and  I,  and  we  are  getting 
paid  for  it.  I  hope  Keith  won't  die.  God  knows 
I  do!  I  really  haven't  anything  against  him.  It 

158 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

was  just  a  dispute  over  a  game  of  poker.  He  was 
mad  and  so  was  I.  Good-by.  We  must  go.  They 
will  not  find  us  where  we  are  going." 

"Hurry!"  she  gasped,  as  she  slid  from  his  arms. 
"Hurry!" 

Side  by  side  the  two  boys  hastened  toward  the 
barn.  The  little  group  saw  them  pass  through  the 
stable-yard,  climb  over  the  fence,  and  vanish  in  the 
thicket  which  was  the  border  of  the  vast  forest  that 
reached  out,  dank  and  trackless,  into  the  mountains 
toward  the  west. 

With  a  little  sigh  of  despair,  Mary  sank  down  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  veranda.  Her  father  looked 
at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  childlike  stare  of  per 
plexity,  and  then  said: 

"Come,  come,  don't  act  that  way!  It  won't  do 
any  good." 

"Come  in  de  house,  missie,"  Aunt  Zilla  said, 
gently,  and  as  soothingly  as  a  mother  to  an  ill  child. 
"Dem  boys  is  gwine  ter  give  de  sheriff  de  slip  en' 
dat  man  will  pull  thoo.  Come  on.  Yo*  breakfust 
is  gittin'  cold.  Mr.  Brown  wants  ter  git  ter  his  wuk 
in  de  cotton." 

To  his  surprise,  Charles  saw  Mary  sit  more  erect. 
It  was  as  if  by  a  superhuman  effort  she  had  shaken 
herself  temporarily  free  from  the  overpowering  dis 
aster. 

"Yes,  you  must  have  your  breakfast,"  she  said, 
smiling  faintly  at  Charles.  "Come,  let's  go  to  the 
dining-room." 

At  the  table  he  found  himself  admiring  the  self- 
control  of  both  Mary  and  her  father.  Charles  noted 
that  Mary  ate  but  little,  and  that  little  she  seemed 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  take  without  relish.  Rowland  had  his  manu 
script  at  his  side  at  the  table,  and  once  he  consulted 
it,  as  if  his  mind  had  reverted  to  something  he  had 
been  interested  in  before  the  arrival  of  his  sons. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  have  the  opportunity 
to  present  my  boys  to  you,"  he  remarked  once.  "I 
told  Kenneth  who  you  were  and  assured  him  that 
you  had  given  us  evidence  of  your  friendly  spirit. 
He  is  glad  that  you  have  come  to  help  us  out  with 
the  work.  One  might  not  think  so  from  his  present 
conduct,  but  he  hates  to  see  his  sister  do  manual 
labor  in  the  field." 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARY,  now  a  different  creature  from  what  she 
was  the  day  before,  accompanied  Charles  to 
the  cotton-field  after  breakfast.  "You  have  done 
an  enormous  amount  for  half  a  day,"  she  said. 
"You  must  not  drive  yourself  like  that.  I  know 
why  you  are  doing  it,  but  you  must  not.  It  would 
be  wrong  for  us  to  permit  it.  From  your  accent  I 
take  you  to  be  a  Northerner,  but  you  are  acting 
like  a  cavalier  of  the  old  South.  I  appreciate  it — 
I  appreciate  it,  but  I  can't  let  you  do  so  much." 

"What,  that?"  he  began.  "As  if  that  were  any 
thing!  Why,  Miss  Rowland — "  His  emotions  swept 
his  power  of  utterance  away  from  him,  and  he  stood, 
hoe  in  hand,  helpless  under  the  spell  of  her  storm- 
swept  beauty  and  appealing  womanhood.  He  wanted 
to  aid  her  more  materially.  He  wanted  to  offer  his 
services  in  behalf  of  her  brothers.  He  would  have 
given  his  life — in  his  eyes  it  was  a  futile  thing  at 
best — for  her  cause;  and  yet  he  knew  himself  to 
be  helpless.  A  woman's  intuition  is  a  marvelous 
thing,  and  when  it  permits  itself  to  fathom  a  man's 
love  it  is  as  sure  as  the  law  of  gravitation.  She 
understood.  Her  dawning  comprehension  beamed 
faintly  in  her  stricken  face.  He  saw  her  breast  rise 
tremulously  and  fall. 

1*1 


"I  think  I  know  what  you  started  to  say,"  she 
faltered.  "And  it  is  very,  very  sweet  of  you  when 
you  have  known  us  such  a  short  time.  Isn't  it 
strange  that  it  should  be  like  this?  I  know  I  can 
trust  you — something  makes  me  feel  sure  of  it — 
and  you  have  impressed  my  father  the  same  way, 
and  even  critical  Aunt  Zilla." 

He  leaned  on  his  hoe-handle.  He  now  felt  more 
sure  of  his  utterance.  "I  want  to  help  you,"  he 
cried.  ' '  I  know  how  terribly  you  must  feel  over  this 
matter.  You  are  too  young  and  gentle  and  frail 
for  this  dastardly  thing  to  rest  on  you.  I  must  do 
something  to  beat  it  off.  I — " 

"There  really  is  nothing,"  she  half  sobbed.  "As 
much  as  I  love  my  brothers  I'd  rather  see  them 
dead  than  on  trial  for  murder.  Why,  Mr.  Brown, 
the  sheriff  wants  to  put  them  in  that  dirty  jail  at 
Carlin!  I  saw  it  once.  The  cells  are  iron  cages  in 
the  center  of  big  rooms  walled  about  with  brick. 
Oh,  oh,  oh!" 

He  longed  to  comfort  her,  but  there  was  nothing 
that  he  could  say.  The  keenest  pain  of  his  entire 
life  seemed  to  be  wrenching  his  heart  from  his  body. 
The  still  fields,  the  slanting  sunlight  on  the  long  rows 
of  cotton-plants,  the  cloud-draped  mountains,  grimly 
mocked  him  in  their  placid  inactivity  when  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  very  universe  ought  to  be  striving 
in  her  behalf. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  only  a  question  of  time,"  she 
moaned.  "They  can't  hide  in  the  mountains  long, 
and  if  Tobe  Keith  dies — oh,  oh!  if  he  dies — " 

She  had  suddenly  noticed  a  horseman  dismounting 
at  the v  gate.  He  was  fat,  rather  gross-looking,  of 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

medium  height,  and  middle-aged.  His  hair  and 
eyes  were  dark,  and  he  had  a  heavy  brown  mustache 
twisted  to  points,  which  was  after  the  manner  of 
the  mountaineers. 

"It  is  Albert  Frazier,  the  sheriff's  brother,"  Mary 
explained. 

' '  The  sheriff's  brother !"    Charles  started. 

"We  needn't  be  afraid  of  him,"  Mary  said,  some^ 
what  confused.  "In  fact,  I  think  he  has  come  to 
try  to  help  me.  He — he  is  a — a  friend  of  mine.  He 
has  been  paying  attention  to  me  fof  almost  a  year. 
He  sees  me.  He  is  coming  here.  Wait.  Don't  go 
to  work  yet.  I  want  you  to  meet  him. " 

"Paying  attention  to  you!"  Charles's  subcon- 
sciousness  spoke  the  words  rather  than  his  inert 
lips.  It  may  have  been  the  sheer  blight  in  his 
face  and  eyes  that  caused  the  girl  to  offer  a  blushing 
explanation  of  her  words. 

"I  don't  mean  that  we  are  engaged — actually  en* 
gaged,"  she  said.  "It  is  only  a  sort  of — of  under- 
standing.  He  says  he  loves  me.  He  has  done  us  a 
great  many  favors.  You  see  he  has  influence  ill 
various  ways.  But  I  have  never  really  encouraged 
him  to — to —  You  know  what  I  mean.  But  he 
is  very  persistent  and  very  hot-tempered,  domineer 
ing,  too.  But,  oh,  what  does  that  matter — what 
does  anything  matter?  Right  now  he  may  be  com 
ing  to  tell  us  that — that  Tobe  Keith  is  dead." 

Charles  said  nothing,  for  Frazier  was  near  at  har-d. 
His  keen  brown  eyes  rested  on  Charles,  half  inquir 
ingly,  half  suspiciously.  He  carried  a  riding-whip 
with  which  he  lashed  the  horse-hairs  from  his 
trousers  with  a  quick,  irritated  stroke. 

163 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  as  he  tipped  his  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat.  "Out  here  giving  instructions. 
eh?  I  heard  you'd  hired  help." 

She  made  a  failure  of  the  smile  she  tried  to  force. 
It  was  a  pale,  piteous  pretense.  "Mr.  Frazier — Mr. 
Brown,"  she  introduced  them. 

Frazier  did  not  offer  his  hand,  and  so  Charles 
did  not  remove  his  own  from  his  hoe-handle.  He 
simply  nodded.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  do 
more,  for  instinctively  he  disliked  the  man.  The 
feeling  must  have  been  returned,  for  Frazier  all  but 
sneered  contemptuously. 

"I  heard  of  Mr.  Brown  at  the  hotel  in  town," 
he  said.  "Circus  man,  eh.  You  fellows  are  always 
dropping  in  on  us  mountain  folks.  Well,  well,  we 
need  your  help  now  in  the  fields.  Niggers  are  no 
good." 

"Have  you  heard  about  my  brothers?"  Mary  here 
broke  in. 

"Yes.  That's  what  I  rode  out  for,  Mary.  I 
knew  you'd  be  crazy.  You  are  funny  that  way — 
as  if  you  can  keep  boys  like  these  two  down." 

"But  how  is  Keith?"  Mary  reached  forward  and 
caught  the  lapel  of  his  coat  entreatingly.  She  ap 
peared  quite  unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing, 
and  as  he  answered  Frazier  took  her  frail  fingers  into 
his  burly  clasp,  and  for  a  moment  held  them  ca 
ressingly,  a  glint  of  passion  in  his  eyes.  Had  she 
been  his  wife  the  sight  could  not  have  been  more 
painful  to  Charles.  It  did  not  excite  his  anger; 
somehow  it  only  heaped  fresh  despair  upon  the  de 
pression  which  had  almost  unmanned  him. 

"Oh,  Keith?  Yes,  I  knew  that  would  be  the  first 
164 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

question,"  Frazier  said.  "And  I  made  special  in 
quiry  before  I  left  on  that  point,  for  everything 
depends  on  it,  of  course.  Well,  little  girl,  nobody 
can  possibly  tell  yet.  Our  doctors  in  town  are  not 
expert  surgeons,  and  they  can't  decide  just  yet,  it 
seems.  The  ball  is  lodged  in  the  stomach  somewhere, 
and  they  seem  to  be  afraid  to  probe  for  it.  It  was 
a  good-sized  piece  of  cold  lead  and  the  fellow  may 
lack  the  bucket  any  minute.  You  see — " 

"Stop!    She  is  fainting!"  Charles  cried. 

He  sprang  forward,  but  Frazier  had  put  his  rough 
arm  about  her  and  began  to  fan  the  ghastly  face 
which  now  rested  on  his  breast. 

"By  God!  so  she  is!"  Frazier  said.  "Get  some 
water,  man.  Quick!  I  can  hold  her,  all  right!" 

"No,  no,  don't  go!"  said  Mary,  as  she  opened  her 
eyes,  drew  herself  erect,  and  stood  away  from 
Frazier.  ' '  I  felt  faint,  but  it  is  all  gone  now.  Noth 
ing  is  the  matter  with  me.  Go  on!  Tell  me  about 
my  brothers." 

Frazier  glanced  at  Charles,  half  smiled,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  you  know  as  much  about  them  as  I  do,  I 
reckon,"  he  said.  "They  came  this  way.  I  know 
where  they  are  by  this  time.  I  know,  but  my  brother 
doesn't,"  and  Frazier  laughed  significantly.  "You 
see  it  is  like  this,  little  girl;  my  brother  happens 
not  to  be  on  to  these  trips  of  mine  out  here  to  see 
you.  I  have  my  reasons,  and  good  ones  at  that,  for 
not  letting  him  know.  There  is  a  part  of  my  father's 
estate  that  is  to  be  divided  when  either  me  or  John 
marries,  and  if  he  thought  that  I  was  thinking  of 
such  a  thing  it  might  upset  him  a  little.  At  any  rate, 

165 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

he  is  in  the  dark  about  us,  so  when  he  started  out 
this  morning  after  your  brothers  I  made  it  my  busi 
ness  to  throw  him  clean  off  the  track.  I  told  him 
that  they  had  gone  exactly  the  opposite  way  and 
that  I  was  sure  they  would  take  a  train  for  the 
West  at  Tifton,  and  show  him  a  clean  pair  of 
heels." 

"Then — then  he  won't  look  for  them  here  in  the 
mountains?"  Mary  panted. 

"Not  for  a  while,  anyway,"  Frazier  returned. 
''And  that  is  what  I  came  to  tell  you,  little  woman. 
I'm  no  fool  and  I  am  going  to  do  everything  in  my 
reach  to  keep  the  boys  out  of  John's  clutch  till  we 
can  tell  how  Keith  gets  on.  John  and  I  have  worked 
together  in  tracking  men  down,  and  he  doesn't 
dream  that  I  am  against  him  in  this.  Thanks  to 
me,  he  and  his  deputies  are  working  on  a  false  scent 
altogether,  and  I'll  keep  them  at  it  if  I  turn  the 
world  over.  You  can  depend  on  me,  little  girl.  I'll 
keep  you  posted.  The  boys  will  be  safe  where  they 
are  for  a  while,  if  you  will  keep  them  fed." 

"But  do  you  think  Keith  will  live?"  Mary  de 
manded,  tremulously. 

"The  Lord  only  knows,"  Frazier  said.  "He  is 
awfully  low,  it  seems  to  me.  I  reckon  there  is  no 
use  fooling  you  as  to  that.  You  may  get  bad  news 
any  minute.  But  even  if  he  dies  we'll  manage  some 
how  to  slip  the  boys  away.  I  know  a  feller  now  in 
the  West.  I  get  letters  from  him.  Fifteen  years  ago 
he  shot  a  man  in — " 

"Don't,  don't  tell  me  about  it!"  Mary  pleaded, 
her  agonized  eyes  turning  to  Charles,  as  if  for  pro 
tection  that  was  not  available  from  any  other  source. 

166 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"No,  what  is  the  use  of  all  that?"  Charles  blurted 
out. 

"Don't  chip  in  here!"  Frazier  thundered.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  breaking  into  my  talk?  Get  back 
to  your  work!  Are  you  paid  to  stand  here  idle?" 

There  was  nothing  he  could  say,  and  Charles 
dropped  his  head  for  a  moment.  Mary  was  staring 
at  him  blankly.  So  vast  was  the  tragedy  hovering 
over  her  that  she  quite  failed  to  sense  the  tension 
between  the  two  men. 

"Come  on,  let's  go  to  the  house,"  went  on  Frazier, 
continuing  to  scowl  at  Charles  even  while  he  was 
putting  his  arm  about  the  girl.  "I  have  to  see  your 
lather  about  some  money  he  wants  to  borrow  at 
the  bank.  He  wants  me  to  indorse  a  note  for 
him." 

"You  know  what  to  do,  Mr.  Brown,"  Mary 
said.  "It  will  take  you  several  days  to  finish 
the  cotton.  After  that  we'll  decide  what  next  to 
do. 

Charles  doffed  his  hat  and  bowed  as  she  turned 
away,  Frazier's  arm  still  about  her  waist.  He  went 
to  the  unfinished  row  of  cotton-plants  and  began 
to  work.  His  back  was  turned  to  the  receding  pair. 
How  different  his  outlook  was  from  that  of  the  day 
before!  Then  a  veritable  new  existence  seemed  to 
have  opened  out  before  him,  an  existence  that  was 
a  divinely  bestowed  transition  from  sordid  misery 
to  far-reaching  happiness.  All  the  ills  of  life  seemed 
to  have  taken  wing,  leaving  him  free  to  grow  and  ex 
pand  as  the  plants  he  was  nurturing;  but  now  there 
was  nothing  to  face  but  the  grim  fact  that  he  was 
a  drudging  outcast  from  conventional  civilization. 
12  167 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

As  he  toiled  on  his  breast  ached  under  a  pain  that 
was  superphysical.  Had  he  brought  it  on  himself? 
he  wondered.  Was  all  this  the  inevitable  punish 
ment  for  the  reckless  folly  of  his  youth?  It  might 
be  so,  he  told  himself,  and  the  sacrifice  he  had 
made  for  William  and  Celeste  and  Ruth  was  not 
sufficient.  He  had  caused  his  dying  mother  great 
mental  distress;  he  had  led  young  men  astray;  he 
had  been  ostracized  by  his  club  and  college  frater 
nity;  he  had  been  sentenced  by  a  judge  in  a  police 
court ;  he  had  disgraced  his  family.  He  ceased  work 
ing  and  looked  toward  the  house.  Mary  and  Frazier 
were  still  in  sight.  The  heavy  arm  was  still  about 
the  slender  waist.  The  fellow  bore  himself  with  the 
air  of  a  man  confident  of  the  prize  he  was  winning, 
and  yet  unconscious  of  its  inestimable  value.  Charles 
stood  staring  till  they  disappeared  in  the  house, 
then  he  resumed  his  work,  but  without  any  part  of 
the  interest  of  the  day  before.  A  wonderful  thing 
had  happened  to  him.  He  had  scoffed  all  his  life 
at  the  idea  of  a  man's  supreme  devotion  to  any  par 
ticular  woman,  and  yet  within  only  a  few  hours  he 
had  found  himself  bound  hand  and  foot,  mind  and 
soul,  to  a  young  girl  he  had  never  seen  before.  What 
had  brought  it  about?  Ah,  she  was  suffering  and 
he  was  suffering!  It  was  the  kinship  of  his  soul  to 
hers.  But  what  could  come  of  it  ?  he  asked,  gloomily. 
Nothing,  not  even  if  she  were  to  withhold  her  love 
from  her  present  suitor,  for  Charles  could  never 
prove  himself  worthy  of  her.  She  belonged  to  a 
proud  old  family,  and  he  was  virtually  a  nameless 
man.  For  William's  sake  he  had  promised  to  ob 
literate  himself,  and  he  must  keep  his  promise.  He 

168 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

toiled  on.  The  sun  was  hot  and  the  perspiration 
oozed  from  him  and  dampened  his  clothing.  He 
worked  with  the  despair  of  a  shackled  convict 
bent  on  forgetting  all  that  lay  beyond  his  prison 
walls. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  next  day  was  a  wet  one.  Charles  heard  the 
rain  beating  on  his  window  when  he  waked. 
Dressing  hurriedly,  for  his  watch  showed  that  he  was 
late,  he  went  down-stairs.  No  one  was  in  sight. 
Going  to  the  dining-room,  he  saw  Zilla  putting  his 
coffee  at  his  plate. 

"I  heard  yer  comin',"  she  said,  agreeably.  "My 
white  folks  ain't  up  yit.  Marse  Andy  al'ays  sleeps 
late  on  er  wet  day,  en  young  miss  just  got  back 
from  town  en  is  in  'er  room,  tryin'  ter  res'.  She 
saddled  de  hoss  'erse'f  'bout  midnight  en  rode  off. 
She  said  she  couldn't  sleep  nohow  widout  knowin' 
how  Tobe  Keith  was  gittin'  on.  I  tried  ter  stop  'er, 
en  so  did  'er  pa,  but  she  would  go." 

"And  did  she  get  favorable  news?"  Charles  asked. 

"He's  des  de  same  as  he  was,"  Zilla  replied,  with 
a  sigh.  "He's  powerful  critical.  She  waited  dar 
all  night  at  de  hotel  wid  Miz'  Quinby.  One  minute 
she'd  hear  one  thing,  and  den  eigin  sumpin'  else.  Po' 
chile  talk  erbout  war-times  en  slave  days?  Dat  po' 
chile  has  mo'  ter  bear  dan  'er  ma  en  pa  ever  went 
th'oo  when  dey  was  all  fightin'  fer  de  ole  state." 

The  rain  was  still  falling  heavily  when  he  left 
the  table,  and  as  he  stood  in  the  front  doorway  and 
realized  that  it  was  too  wet  for  hoeing,  he  suddenly 

170 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

thought  of  the  blacksmith  shop  and  the  work  he 
had  planned  to  do  in  sharpening  the  tools.  Glad  of 
something  to  busy  himself  with,  he  went  to  the  shop, 
kindled  a  fire  in  the  antiquated  forge,  and  began  to 
work.  There  was  something  vaguely  soothing  in 
the  splash  and  patter  of  the  rain  on  the  low,  black 
ened  roof  of  split  oaken  boards,  the  sucking  of  the 
air  into  the  bellows,  the  creaking  of  the  bellows 
chains,  the  ringing  of  the  anvil,  and  the  spray  of 
metallic  sparks  in  the  half  darkness  of  the  room. 

It  was  near  noon.  The  rain  had  ceased,  though 
the  clouds  were  still  heavy  and  lowering.  He  was 
hammering  on  a  red  plowshare  when  Mary  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  Her  back  was  to  the 
outer  daylight,  her  face  dimly  lighted  by  the  slow 
blaze  of  the  forge.  She  advanced  into  the  shop, 
paused  and  scanned  the  heap  of  sharpened  tools 
on  the  ground  near  the  tub  of  blackened  water  which 
was  used  for  cooling  the  metal. 

"What  a  wonder  you  are!"  she  cried,  with  an  at 
tempt  at  a  lightness  he  knew  she  did  not  feel.  "You 
have  already  done  ten  dollars'  worth  of  work  this 
morning.  You  see  I  know,  for  I  pay  the  bills." 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  answered.  "I  wanted  to  be 
busy." 

"I  heard  the  ringing  of  the  anvil  when  I  waked, 
and  knew  what  it  meant.  Yes,  you  are  wonderful, 
and  I  am  afraid" — she  tried  to  smile — "that  you 
are  too  valuable  for  us.  I  was  thinking  about  you 
on  my  way  to  town  last  night.  You  won't  stay 
here.  You  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing — I  mean 
the  awful  mess  you  find  us  in.  I  wouldn't  blame 
you  for  leaving  us.  Why,  I'll  be  frank  with  you, 

171 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mr.  Brown — it  is  only  fair  to  you  as  a  stranger  in 
this  locality.  There  are  plantations  only  a  few  miles 
away  where  you  would  find  more  people  employed, 
where  they  have  some  sort  of  amusement,  and  where 
the  people  you'd  work  for  would  not  be  upset  and 
depressed  as  we  are.  I  did  want  to  save  our  crops, 
now  that  they  are  planted,  but,  facing  this  other 
thing,  the  crops  count  for  nothing — nothing  at  all. 
If  God  would  show  me  a  way  to  save  my  brothers 
I'd  give  my  very  soul  in  payment.  You  don't  know 
— no  one  could  know  how  I  feel.  I  am  stretched  on 
a  cross,  Mr.  Brown.  I  am  praying  with  every  breath 
I  draw,  but  I  am  stifling  under  the  dread  of  what 
may  happen.  At  this  very  minute  Tobe  Keith  may 
— may — "  she  groaned,  leaned  against  the  bellows 
and  stood  shuddering,  cowed  and  wild-eyed,  under 
the  horror  her  mind  had  pictured. 

"Don't,  don't,  please  don't!"  he  cried.  "Don't 
give  up.  Don't  lose  hope.  There  is  always  hope. 
I  lost  it  once  in — in  a  great  trouble,  but  I  lived 
through  it  somehow.  You  will,  too.  Some  wise 
man  has  said  that  God  does  not  lay  any  burden  on 
any  one  that  is  too  heavy  to  bear.  Think  of  that — 
believe  that ;  it  comforted  me  once.  It  is  comforting 
me  now  in  the  belief  that  you  will  escape  from  this 
terrible  thing." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so — do  you?"  and  she  wrung 
her  hands,  lowered  her  head  again,  and  uttered  a 
little  wail  that  ended  in  a  sob. 

He  all  but  reached  out  his  hands  toward  her  in  a 
strange,  bold  impulse  to  take  her  into  his  arms,  but 
checked  himself  and  stood  aghast  as  he  contemplated 
the  catastrophe  which  might  have  followed  such  an 

172 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

unwarranted  act.  Had  he  subconsciously  leaped 
back  to  the  free  period  before  his  downfall,  or,  as  a 
regenerated  man,  had  he  for  an  instant  felt  himself 
to  be  on  her  level  ?  Ah  no,  it  was  the  kinship  again 
— the  kinship  of  suffering  souls. 

"I'm  sure  of  it, ' '  he  repeated.  " If  I  thought  other 
wise  I'd  see  no  good  in  life  at  all.  Men  deserve 
punishment  for  the  wrong  they  do,  but  gentle  girls 
like  you  must  not  suffer  for  the  mistakes  of  men.  It 
will  pass  over — your  cloud  will  blow  away." 

"Oh,  oh!"  and  she  put  her  hands  to  her  dry  eyes 
while  her  shoulders  shook.  "I  hope — you  make  me 
hope  a  little,  somehow — that  what  you  say  may  be 
true.  You  comfort  me  more  than  everybody  else 
put  together.  It  is  your  way,  your  voice,  your  look. 
You  are  a  good,  kind  man,  Mr.  Brown.  How  strange 
that  you  came  just  when  you  did!  I'll  try  to  be 
braver.  I'll  try  to  stop  thinking  that  every  ap 
proaching  person  on  the  road  is  coming  to  tell  me 
the  worst." 

"That  is  right,"  he  said. 

"And  would  you  pray — would  you  continue  to 
pray?"  she  asked,  with  the  timid  simplicity  of  a 
child  groping  in  the  dark. 

Their  eyes  met  steadily.  "I  don't  know  how  to 
advise  you  as  to  that,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  full  of 
thought.  "I  must  confess  that  I  am  not  religious. 
I  used  to  pray,  as  a  child,  but  I  don't  now." 

"Well,  I  shall  keep  it  up,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"There  are  moments  when  it  seems  to  help.  I 
prayed  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  this  morning,  and  I 
did.  You  see,  I  need  the  strength.  If  I  go  to  pieces 
all  may  be  lost,  for  my  father  can  do  nothing." 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

She  turned  back  to  the  house.  The  rain  had 
ceased,  though  the  clouds  were  still  thick  and  lower 
ing.  The  forge  blazed  again;  the  anvil  rang  as  he 
pounded  the  yielding  steel  into  shape.  He  had  for 
gotten  himself  and  his  past;  the  new  existence  was 
buoying  him  up  again.  Nothing  mattered  but  the 
woes  which  had  come  to  Mary  Rowland  and  the 
necessity  of  his  shouldering  them — fighting  them. 

When  the  bell  rang  for  lunch  he  went  into  the 
house.  He  found  Mary  in  the  dining-room,  packing 
some  food  into  a  basket. 

"It  is  for  the  boys,"  she  explained.  "I  am  glad 
it  is  clearing  up,  for  I  must  take  it  to  them." 

"You?"  he  cried,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  made  answer,  simply.  "Father  and  I 
are  the  only  ones  who  know  where  the  boys  are. 
Father  is  in  town  now  to  wait  for  news  and  to  attend 
to  some  business  with  Mr.  Frazier  at  the  bank. 
Father  would  not  want  me  to  go,  but  some  one  must. ' ' 

"Might  I  not  go  in  your  place?"  he  asked,  and 
he  actually  held  his  breath  while  he  waited  for  her 
reply. 

"You  don't  know  the  way,"  she  said.  "It  is  hard 
even  for  me  to  find." 

He  looked  i.t  the  heavy  basket.  "But  you  can't 
carry  that  by  yourself.  May  I  not  carry  it  for  you  ?" 

She  glanced  at  him  gratefully.  "Would  you  really 
care  to  go?"  she  inquired.  "It  is  a  long  walk,  and 
difficult  even  in  dry  weather." 

"Please!"  he  said.    "You  ought  not  to  go  alone." 

"Thank  you;  but  first  get  your  dinner.  I  don't 
want  any.  I  have  only  just  eaten  my  breakfast." 

When  they  started  out,  half  an  hour  later,  the 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

clouds  had  lifted  somewhat,  though  they  were  still 
full  of  rain.  They  went  through  the  barn-yard, 
climbed  over  the  rail  fence,  and  entered  the  near-by 
thicket,  which  stretched  on  into  the  sloping  woodland 
of  the  mountains.  The  wet  weeds  and  grass  were 
already  dampening  her  shoes,  and,  noting  it,  he 
paused  suddenly. 

' '  You  really  ought  not  to  expose  yourself  this  way," 
he  protested.  "Your  feet  will  be  soaked  in  a  very 
short  time." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said.  "Nothing  matters, 
Mr.  Brown,  but  the  fate  that  hangs  over  my  broth 
ers.  I  think  I  could  wade  in  water  up  to  my  knees 
for  days  at  a  time  and  not  be  conscious  of  discom 
fort.  It  isn't  one's  body  that  feels  the  greatest 
pain,  it  is  the  mind,  the  soul,  the  memory.  The 
pain  comes  from  the  futility  of  hoping.  Life  is  a 
tragedy,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes  and  no,"  he  answered,  smiling  into  her  ex 
pectant,  upturned  face,  the  beauty  of  which  had 
deepened  under  her  gloom.  "I  have  thought  so  at 
times,  but  there  were  always  rifts  in  my  clouds. 
There  will  be  in  yours." 

"How  sweet  and  noble  of  you!"  she  said,  tremu 
lously,  in  her  emotion.  Suddenly  he  saw  that  she 
was  studying  his  face  closely,  feature  by  feature. 
Then  she  continued,  as  one  rendering  a  verdict: 
"Yes,  you  have  suffered.  I  see  the  traces  of  it.  It 
lurks  in  the  tone  of  your  voice;  it  shows  itself  in 
your  sympathy  for  me." 

Without  revealing  his  new-found  passion  for  her, 
which  surged  within  him  like  a  raging  torrent,  there 
was  nothing  he  could  say.  Presently  they  came  to 

i75 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

a  brook  several  yards  in  width  and  he  could  see 
no  means  of  crossing  it.  She  was  disturbed  for  a 
moment,  but  to  her  surprise  he  stepped  into  the 
shallow  water,  took  the  basket  to  the  other  side  and, 
wet  to  his  knees,  came  wading  back  to  her. 

"You  must  let  me  carry  you  across,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"No,  I'm  too  heavy."    She  shook  her  head. 

"I  could  carry  one  of  you  under  each  arm,"  he 
jested.  "Come!"  He  held  out  his  hands.  She  hesi 
tated.  A  touch  of  pink  colored  her  cheeks,  and  then 
she  came  into  his  arms. 

"There,"  he  directed,  as  he  lifted  her  up,  "put 
your  arm  around  my  neck  and  lean  toward  me. 
Don't  be  afraid.  That's  right.  I  must  be  steady, 
you  know,  for  there  are  round  stones  under  my  feet, 
and  if  I  slipped  we'd  both  go  down." 

Reaching  the  other  side,  he  put  her  down  and 
took  up  .the  basket.  His  heart  was  beating  like  a 
trip-hammer.  The  flush  was  still  on  Mary's  face. 

"You  carried  me  as  if  I  were  a  baby,"  she  said. 
"How  very  strong  you  are !  I  could  feel  the  muscles 
of  your  arms  like  knotted  ropes.  What  an  odd  mix 
ture  you  are!" 

"In  what  way?"  he  asked,  as  they  moved  on  side 
by  side. 

"I  hardly  know,"  she  answered.  "Well,  for  one 
thing,  you  seem  out  of  place  as  a  common  workman 
in  the  fields.  You  have  the  manner,  the  way  of — " 
She  broke  off,  and  the  flush  in  her  cheeks  deepened. 

"I've  been  several  things,"  he  admitted,  with  a 
sigh.  "I  ought  to  know  something  of  life,  for  I've 
had  many  experiences." 

176 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  was  in  your  room  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"It  is  a  desolate  place  for  a  man  of  your  tempera 
ment.  I  must  fix  it  up.  The  attic  is  full  of  old 
things — curtains,  pictures,  and  even  books.  You 
must  be  lonely  at  times.  I  noticed  a  photograph  on 
your  bureau  in  a  frame.  It  was  that  of  a  child,  a 
beautiful  little  girl.  She  was  so  refined-looking,  and 
so  daintily  dressed.  She  resembled  you,  about  the 
eyes  and  brow." 

Charles  stared  fixedly.  He  looked  confused.  ' '  Yes, 
I  think  we  do  look  alike,"  he  finally  replied.  Prob 
ably  she  expected  him  to  say  more,  but  how  was  it 
possible  to  explain? 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said,  almost  in  an 
undertone,  as  she  strode  on  ahead  of  him.  "I  now 
know  why  you  look  homesick  at  times.  You  must 
miss  her." 

He  saw  that  she  did  not  fathom  the  truth  about 
the  child,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  an  adequate 
explanation  and  so  he  remained  silent.  However, 
the  girl  was  making  deductions. 

"It  must  be,"  she  thought,  as  she  forged  her  way 
through  the  damp  bushes  still  ahead  of  him.  "It 
is  his  child.  His  wife  must  be  living  and  they  are 
separated,  or  he  would  speak  of  her.  Poor  fellow!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR  four  miles  they  walked  over  very  uneven, 
rocky  ground.  Deeper  and  deeper  they  went 
into  the  mountains.  There  were  hills  to  climb  in 
places  where  there  was  no  sign  of  path  or  road; 
there  were  yawning  gulches  to  cross;  dank,  stream- 
filled  canons  filled  with  dead  and  leaning  trees  to 
pass  through.  He  felt  that  she  was  leading  him 
aright,  for  her  step  was  firm  and  her  progress  rapid 
and  sure.  Now  and  then  she  would  look  at  the 
western  sky  where  the  presence  of  the  sun  was  indi 
cated  by  a  somewhat  brighter  spot  than  the  rest 
of  the  dun  expanse. 

"We  really  must  hurry,"  she  kept  saying,  "for 
we'll  be  overtaken  by  night  on  our  return  if  we  don't 
get  to  them  pretty  soon." 

"Have  you  a  landmark  to  guide  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  there  to  the  left.  Do  you  see  that  mountain 
peak?  Well,  their  hiding-place — it  is  a  little  cave 
they  know  about — is  in  the  thick  jungle  at  the  foot 
of  it,  on  this  side.  We  can't  go  all  the  way  in.  It 
would  be  impossible.  I  shall  get  nearer  and  whistle 
for  them  to  come  out.  They  know  my  whistle. 
They  taught  me  how  to  do  it  when  I  was  little.  It 
is  like  this,"  and  she  clasped  her  hands  together 
tightly,  leaving  an  orifice  between  the  thumbs  into 

17* 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

which  she  blew  her  breath  sharply.  A  keen  whistle 
was  produced.  "There  is  no  mistaking  it,"  she  con 
tinued.  "They  would  know  it  anywhere.  Every 
pair  of  hands  makes  a  different  sound." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  on  the  edge  of  the 
dense  jungle  of  which  she  had  spoken.  A  veritable 
riot  of  dank  undergrowth  was  massed  beneath  giant 
trees  and  around  green,  moss-grown  boulders.  The 
greater  part  of  it  was  a  miasmatic  swamp,  the  boggy 
soil  of  which  could  not  be  walked  upon  with  safety 
even  in  dry  weather.  Mary  paused  on  a  spot  where 
the  ground  was  firm  and  folded  her  hands.  "Be 
still  and  listen,"  she  said.  "If  they  are  there,  they 
will  answer.  They  will  know  that  I'd  not  whistle 
if  it  were  not  safe." 

The  flutelike  note  rose  on  the  still  air;  it  was 
echoed  from  a  near-by  cliff  and  died  down.  No 
sound  followed.  Mary  looked  perplexed,  worried. 
She  whistled  again.  This  time  a  distant  whistle 
caught  up  the  echo.  It  was  a  coarser  tone  than  hers 
but  produced  in  the  same  way. 

"That's  Kensy!"  she  cried,  in  relief.  "Listen! 
Hear  the  twigs  breaking?  He  is  coming — maybe 
both.  She  whistled  again,  now  more  softly,  and  in 
her  excitement  tremulously.  The  sound  ol  bending 
bushes  and  the  cracking  of  dry  branches  was  growing 
nearer. 

' '  Hello,  brother !"  Mary  suddenly  cried  out.  ' '  Here 
we  are.  Come  on." 

"Hello,  sis!    Who  is  with  you — father?" 

"No,  Mr.  Brown." 

The  sound  of  his  movements  ceased.  "Who?"  he 
asked,  dubiously. 

179 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Mr.  Brown,  you  know.  He  is  working  for  us. 
Come  on.  It  is  all  right,  Kensy." 

'• '  Oh ! ' '  Kenneth  was  heard  ejaculating.  ' '  All  right. 
Coast  clear,  sis?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Kensy.    We've  got  some  food." 

"Food,  thank  God!  We  are  starving,  sis.  We 
haven't  had  a  bite  to  eat  since  the  night  before  we 
left  home."  With  this  he  appeared  from  a  clump  of 
weeping  willows,  and  stood  before  them.  She  in 
troduced  him  to  Charles.  Kenneth  simply  nodded. 
He  was  coatless,  without  a  hat,  and  besmeared  with 
the  dark  mud  of  the  morass  from  head  to  foot. 

"I  fell  down  back  there,"  he  said.  "My  foot 
slipped  while  I  was  on  a  log.  I  was  wet,  anyway. 
We  were  away  from  the  cave,  trying  to  kill  some 
birds  to  eat,  and  got  caught  in  the  rain.  Afraid  to 
make  a  fire,  anyway.  No  matches." 

' '  I  have  some  in  a  dry  box, ' '  Charles  said.  ' '  Won't 
you  take  them?" 

' '  Never  mind.  I  put  plenty  of  them  in  the  basket , ' ' 
Mary  said.  "Where  is  Martin?" 

"In  the  cave.  He  had  his  clothes  off,  trying  to 
dry  them,  and  so  I  came  out  alone.  He  is  all  right, 
but  acting  like  a  baby.  Oh  God!  what  have  you 
got,  sis.  He  had  the  basket  in  his  muddy  hands  and 
was  removing  the  napkin  which  covered  the  con 
tents.  "There  he  comes  now.  He  couldn't  wait." 

The  other  boy  now  appeared,  barefooted,  his 
trousers  rolled  up  to  his  knees.  On  being  introduced 
he  shook  hands  timidly.  He  ignored  the  basket  of 
food.  His  glaring,  dark-ringed  eyes  rested  on  his 
sister's  face.  He  panted  as  he  bent  toward  her. 
"How  is  Keith?"  he  asked. 

180 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Yes,  how  is  he?"  Kenneth  echoed,  glancing  up 
from  the  contents  of  the  basket. 

Charles  thought  it  was  significant  that  Mary  hesi 
tated  for  an  instant  before  replying.  "He  is  just 
the  same  as  he  was — no  better,  no  worse,"  she 
answered. 

1  'No  better?  My  God!"  Martin  seemed  to  shrink 
together  like  a  touched  sensitive-plant.  "Then — 
then  he  may  die?" 

Kenneth  had  his  hands  full  of  baked  chicken,  but 
he  lowered  them  and,  leaving  the  food  in  the  basket, 
he  stood  up.  "Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  sis?"  he  faltered, 
his  lips  betraying  a  tendency  to  shake. 

"I  hate  to  say  so,"  Mary  faltered,  "but  I  must 
not  deceive  you  and  make  you  reckless.  This  is 
the  only  safe  place  now."  She  told  them  of  Albert 
Frazier's  aid  in  misleading  his  brother. 

"He  is  a  good  one,"  Kenneth  said,  more  at  ease. 
"He  is  sharper  any  day  than  his  blockhead  of  a 
brother.  If  he  stays  on  our  side  we'll  be  all  right, 
even — even  if — " 

"Don't  say  it,  Ken!"  Martin's  young  mouth  was 
twisted  awry.  "I  can't  bear  it.  I  can't — I  simply 
can't!" 

Kenneth  uttered  a  forced  laugh  of  defiance.  "He 
is  like  that  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "He  didn't  sleep 
a  wink  last  night.  He  cried.  He  prayed  to  God  and 
to  mother's  spirit:  'Save  Tobe  Keith — save  Tobe 
Keith!  Don't  let  'im  die!'  " 

"It  is  because  I  held  him,"  Martin  feebly  ex 
plained.  "You  see,  I  had  him  so  he  couldn't  move, 
and — and  when  Ken  shot  I  felt  his  body  sort  of 
crumble  up  and  hang  limp  in  my  arms.  If  he  dies 

181 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

it  will  be  my  fault,  for — for  he  could  have  dodged 
the  shot  but  for  me.  If  he  dies,  sis,  it  will  be 
my  fault  and  it  will  mean  the  rope  and  the  scaf 
fold." 

Kenneth  had  bent  to  the  basket  again,  but  he 
refrained  from  taking  up  the  food.  He  faced  his 
sister.  "We'll  have  to  stay  hid,"  he  said,  grimly. 
"Don't  offend  Albert  Frazier,  for  all  you  do.  He 
won't  let  his  brother  find  us.  Even  if  he  found  us, 
I'll  bet  Albert  could  keep  him  from  making  an 
arrest.  He  owes  Albert  money,  I've  heard.  They 
always  work  into  each  other's  hands.  Albert  had 
some  trouble  himself  once  that  the  sheriff  squashed." 

Charles  was  now  looking  at  Mary.  There  was  an 
expression  about  her  face,  and  all  but  swaying  body, 
that  was  akin  to  that  of  her  fainting-spell  in  the 
field  the  preceding  day.  She  had  locked  her  hands 
together  and  he  saw  a  flare  of  agony  in  her  tor 
tured  eyes.  There  was  a  fallen  tree  near  her  and 
she  sank  down  on  its  trunk  and  lowered  her  head. 
Finally  she  accomplished  what  he  knew  she 
was  trying  so  hard  to  do;  she  mastered  her 
weakness. 

"Martin,  sit  here  by  me,"  she  said,  pleadingly, 
and  the  younger  boy  obeyed,  the  far-reaching  terror 
still  in  his  bland  blue  eyes.  She  stroked  back  his 
matted  hair  and  picked  the  fragments  of  leaves  and 
grass  from  it.  "My  sweet  boy!"  she  faltered,  "I 
don't  know  what  to  say  to  comfort  you  and  quiet 
your  fears  about  —  Tobe's  condition.  I'm  glad 
mother  is  not  alive,  Martin.  She  could  not  have 
borne  this.  You  are  so  young — just  a  boy — and 
you  are  sensitive  and  imaginative.  It  looks  worse 

182 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  you  than  it  really  is.  I  feel  down  deep  in  me  that 
Tobe  will  get  well.  We  are  sure  to  get  good  news 
before  long.  Now  eat  something." 

"I  was  hungry  this  morning,  but  it  is  gone," 
Martin  said.  "The  sight  of  the  stuff  almost  sickens 
me." 

Mary  put  both  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
kissed  him.  "You  are  making  yourself  sick,"  she 
said.  "Eat,  won't  you,  for  my  sake?" 

His  brother  was  eating  now,  and  Martin  went  to 
his  side  and  took  a  piece  of  chicken  and  a  biscuit. 
Mary  watched  them  for  a  moment  with  wide-open 
glittering  eyes — the  sort  of  stare  that  sometimes 
seems  to  float  on  a  rising  tide  of  tears  invisible. 
Then  her  head  sank  again. 

"Look  here,"  Kenneth  said,  suddenly,  as  he 
glanced  toward  the  western  sky.  "You  and  Mr. 
Brown  have  a  long  walk  before  you  to  get  back 
before  night.  You  are  doing  no  good  here  now. 
Hadn't  you  better  start?" 

Mary  stood  up.  "Yes,  we  must  be  going.  Are 
you  comfortable  in  the  cave?" 

"Yes,"  Kenneth  returned.  "It  is  good  enough. 
We  have  a  big  bed  of  dry  leaves  and  grass,  and  if 
Martin  would  only  sleep  we'd  be  all  right." 

"I  try,  but  I  can't,"  the  blue-eyed  boy  said,  in 
an  uncertain,  half -abashed  tone.  "There  was  a 
night-owl  near  us  last  night,  and  it  was  hooting, 
and,  my  God !  sis,  the  thing  seemed  to  talk.  I  never 
had  anything  against  Tobe  Keith  in  my  life.  In 
fact,  he  and  I  used  to  fish  and  swim  together  when 
we'd  run  away  from  school,  and  to  think  that  I 
actually —  Turn  around,  and  I'll  show  exactly  how 
13  183 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  clamped  his  arms  and  how  he  was  bent  down  when 
Ken  fired." 

"No,  not  now,"  Charles  protested.  "Your  sister 
is  very  nervous.  She  almost  fainted  just  now." 

"No,  don't  go  into  it,"  Kenneth  mumbled,  his 
mouth  full.  "I  haven't  anything  against  Tobe, 
either.  We  were  both  drinking,  but  they  tell  me 
the  law  doesn't  excuse  a  fellow  on  that  account.  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  doing,  but  I  couldn't  prove 
it  to  a  jury.  I  reckon  they  would  call  it  deliberate. 
You  see,  Tobe  and  I  had  had  words  the  day  before 
over  another  matter,  and  I  remember  I  made  some 
threats  about  what  I'd  do  to  him.  Oh,  if  he  dies 
they  will  have  a  case  against  us.  I  know  that  well 
enough,  and  we  must  stay  under  cover  till  we  can 
get  West." 

"I  thought  Tobe  had  a  knife,"  Martin  said,  pite- 
ously.  "I  was  sure  I  saw  him  draw  it,  and  I  held 
him  to  keep  him  from  stabbing  Ken.  You  know 
Tobe  did  rip  a  fellow  open  once  in  a  fight.  They  say 
I  was  mistaken  and  that  it  was  just  a  spoon  he  had 
been  eating  oysters  with,  and  that  he  dropped  it 
as  soon  as  I  grabbed  him.  Sis,  will  you  let  us  know 
how  he  is  as  often  as  you  can?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  girl  promised,  "and  if  you  don't 
hear  it  will  be  a  sign  of  good  news.  Remember  that, 
and,  brother,  do  try  to  sleep  to-night.  You  look 
sick." 

She  glanced  at  the  .sky  again.  She  kissed  them 
both  and  walked  away.  They  had  gone  only  a  few 
paces  when  Charles  suddenly  turned  back  and 
joined  them. 

"Your  sister  may  not  be  able  to  come  every  time," 

184 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

he  said.  "But  I  know  the  way  now,  for  I  took  note 
of  the  landmarks,  and  I'll  come  by  myself." 

"That  will  be  bully  of  you,"  Kenneth  said.  "By 
the  way,  we  must  have  a  signal,  so  that  I'll  know 
who  it  is.  Suppose  you  whistle  twice  slowly  and 
three  times  fast,  and  I'll  answer  and  come  out." 

Mary  was  looking  at  Charles  from  sadly  inquiring 
eyes  when  he  caught  her  up  a  moment  later.  ' '  What 
did  you  say  to  them?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  and  she  forced  a  wan  smile,  while  a 
warm  glow  of  gratitude  rose  in  her  eyes. 

"How  sweet  and  kind  of  you!"  she  said.  "You 
have  proved  yourself  to  be  a  friend,  and  we  have 
known  you  such  a  short  time." 

"I'd  give  my  life  to  help  you  out  of  this,"  he  sud 
denly  said,  surprised  at  his  boldness  of  speech  and 
the  raging  storm  of  sympathy  which  had  fairly 
forced  the  words  from  him. 

"Your  life?"  She  was  close  at  his  side,  for  he 
was  holding  the  dripping  bough  of  a  mountain  cedar 
aside  for  her  to  pass.  "That  is  a  strong  expression. 
Your  life?  That  is  all  one  has,  you  know." 

"My  life  is  worthless  to  me  and  to  every  one  else," 
he  said,  frankly,  and  as  he  uttered  the  words  he 
was  viewing  his  career  in  a  flash-light  of  memory 
from  its  beginning  to  the  present.  "Yes,  Miss  Row 
land,  it  is  no  good — absolutely  no  good.  That's 
why  I  feel  as  I  do  for  your  brothers,  and — I  mean  it 
— I'd  give  my  life  to-day  to  lift  you  out  of  this 
trouble  and  see  you  as  I  did  that  day  in  the  store 
when  you  hired  me." 

"Hired  you?  Don't  use  that  word,"  she  suddenly 
cried  out,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  in  a 

185 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

gentle  stroke  of  protest.  "Mr.  Brown,  it  seems  to 
me —  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  I've  known  you  for  ages  and  ages.  I  can 
see  that  you  are  sad  at  times,  and  I  know  that  you 
have  suffered  somehow,  somewhere.  That  picture 
of  the  pretty  child  in  your  room — she  is  linked  with 
your  trouble,  is  she  not?" 

"Indirectly,"  he  admitted,  not  seeing  her  drift. 
"Yes,  it  was  partly  on  her  account — for  her  own 
future — that  I  left  home." 

"I  see,  I  see;  and  her  mother?"  Mary's  voice  had 
sunken  almost  to  inaudibility;  the  cracking  of  the 
twigs  under  their  feet  all  but  drowned  its  sound. 
"Did  you  leave  her  with  the  child?" 

"Oh  yes!  They  are  inseparable,"  he  answered. 
He  felt  that  he  was  admitting  too  much,  and  he 
turned  the  subject  to  that  of  the  lessening  sunlight 
on  a  cliff  to  their  left.  He  thought  the  dense  clouds 
massing  behind  them  indicated  a  high  wind  and  a 
heavy  downpour  of  rain. 

But  his  companion  was  not  thinking  of  the  state 
of  the  weather.  "You  will  go  back  to  them  some 
day,  of  course,"  she  persisted. 

Charles  shuddered;  she  was  probing  a  subject 
that  he  felt  honor  bound  not  to  touch  upon.  She 
repeated  her  words,  steadily  fixing  his  eyes  with 
her  own. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  firmly,  "I  shall  never  go  back, 
Miss  Rowland — never  in  the  world.  My  future 
home  is  here,  anywhere,  but  never  there  again." 

"And  you  do  not  like  to  speak  of  your  family?  Is 
that  it?"  Mary  went  on,  softly,  sympathetically. 

"I  can't —  I  haven't  the  moral  right  to  speak  cf 
186 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

them  now.  That  is  all  I  can  say.  I'm  dead  to  my 
past,  Miss  Rowland.  I  am  blotting  it  out.  Serving 
you  in  any  capacity  helps  kill  memories  that  ought 
to  be  dead.  There  are  memories  that  reproach  and 
torture  one.  I  have  my  share  of  them." 


CHAPTER  X 

FOR  perhaps  a  mile  they  trudged  along  in  silence. 
Presently  Mary  stopped  and  turned  on  him. 

"A  drop  of  rain  fell  in  my  face,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  the  sky. 

His  eyes  followed  hers.  Along  the  brow  of  a 
mountain  to  the  west  clouds  as  black  and  thick 
as  the  smoke  of  pitch  were  massing.  The  tops  of  the 
trees  in  the  near  distance  were  swaying  violently 
and  the  breeze  had  become  cooler  and  was  full  of 
swift  and  contending  currents.  Little  whirlwinds 
lifted  the  leaves  at  their  feet  and  sent  them  sky 
ward  in  shafts  and  spiral  columns.  More  drops  of 
rain  fell.  The  brighter  spot  in  the  west  was  becom 
ing  cloud- veiled,  and  it  was  growing  dark  on  all  sides. 

"We  are  sure  to  get  caught,"  Mary  said,  in  alarm. 
"It  is  an  awful  storm,  both  wind  and  rain.  They 
are  terrible  here  in  the  mountains  when  they  rise 
suddenly  like  that.  See,  it  is  coming  fast.  What  shall 
we  do?" 

He  could  offer  no  helpful  suggestion.  There  was 
no  sort  of  shelter  in  sight.  Still  they  hurried  on 
breathlessly,  Mary  leading  the  way.  At  times,  in 
her  haste,  she  plunged  as  aimlessly  into  tangled 
undergrowth  as  a  pursued  animal,  and  had  to  be 
extricated  by  his  calm,  firm  hands. 

188 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Running  like  this  won't  do  any  good,"  he  advised 
her,  gravely.  "I'm  afraid  of  one  thing,  very  much 
afraid,  and  that  is  that  we  may  lose  our  way.  You 
see,  up  to  now  we  had  the  light  in  the  west  to  guide 
us,  but  it  is  all  gone  now.  Those  shifting  clouds  are 
very  misleading." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  we  are  right  as  to  the  direction," 
Mary  said,  "but  I  am  afraid  of  the  storm.  See  the 
lightning  over  there,  and  hear  the  thunder.  Tht 
storm  is  getting  nearer,  and  it  is  dangerous  among 
trees  like  these  at  such  times.  They  are  shattered 
and  torn  up  by  the  roots  very  often." 

It  was  raining  sharply  now,  and  the  darkness  had 
thickened  so  much  that  it  was  impossible  to  discern 
the  landmarks  which  Charles  had  made  note  of  as 
they  passed  the  spot  before. 

"Ah,  we  are  right!"  the  girl  suddenly  cried.  "I 
know  that  flat-faced  boulder  there,  but  it  is  miles 
and  miles  from  home.  I  know  the  way  now,  but 
we  can't  possibly  make  it  in  time  to  escape  the 
storm." 

In  a  veritable  sheet  the  rain  beat  down  now.  The 
thunder  roared  and  the  lightning  flashed  about 
them.  The  black  clouds  hurtled  along  the  mountain 
side  and  drooped  down  from  the  threatening  sky. 
The  water  was  running  in  streams  from  Mary's 
bonnet.  Charles  jerked  off  his  coat  and  was  putting 
it  about  her  when  she  protested. 

"No,  don't!"  she  cried.  "You'll  need  it."  She 
tried  to  resist,  but,  as  if  she  had  been  an  unruly 
child,  he  drew  the  garment  about  her  forcibly  and 
buttoned  it  at  the  neck. 

"You  must,"  he  said,  simply;  "you  must!" 
189 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Must!"  she  repeated,  sharply.  "How  dare  you 
.speak  to  me  like  that?" 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Rowland,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  offend  you,  but  you  must  keep  it  on.  You 
are  not  well.  I  have  noticed  your  tendency  to 
faintness.  Your  trouble,  loss  of  sleep,  and  worry 
have  weakened  you.  Your  feet  are  wet,  and — 

"Thank  you;  I  was  wrong,"  she  answered,  as  the 
wind  bore  his  words  away  and  the  rain  dashed  into 
her  face. 

For  a  little  while  they  forged  their  way  through 
the  wet  bushes,  wild  vines,  and  mountain  heather. 
Suddenly  she  paused  again. 

"We  are  in  for  it,"  she  sighed.  "There  used  to 
be  an  old  hut  of  logs  near  the  flat  boulder.  It  is 
somewhere  here.  If  we  could  find  it  we  would  be 
sheltered  for  a  while." 

"A  hut?"  he  echoed.  "Then  we  must  find  it  if 
possible.  The  storm  is  just  beginning.  To  be 
exposed  to  it  might  cost  you  your  life." 

"I  think  it  is  over  that  way,"  she  replied,  and 
they  turned  sharply  in  the  direction  she  indicated. 
It  was  now  so  dark  that  they  could  scarcely  see 
where  they  were  walking.  Streams  newly  made 
from  the  accumulating  water  on  the  heights  above 
flooded  their  feet  to  the  depths  of  their  shoes,  and 
the  rain  fell  upon  them  as  if  by  the  pailful.  Once 
Mary  slipped  and  fell,  and  he  lifted  her  as  tenderly 
as  if  she  had  been  a  sick  child. 

"Too  bad!  too  bad!"  she  heard  him  saying,  and 
then:  "Excuse  me,  but  I  must  hold  you."  With 
that  he  put  his  arm  around  her  waist.  She  shrank 
back  for  a  moment,  but  she  made  no  protest,  and 

190 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

side  to  side,  like  a  pair  of  lovers,  they  struggled 
along.  Sometimes  she  stumbled,  sometimes  he,  but 
the  footing  of  one  or  the  other  always  held. 

"The  hut  must  be  here  somewhere,"  Mary  said. 
There  was  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  and  in  it  Mary 
saw  a  giant  oak  which  she  remembered.  "We  are 
right,"  she  exulted,  aloud.  "It  is  just  beyond  that 
oak." 

But  other  difficulties  were  to  be  met.  A  torrent 
of  water  coming  down  from  the  mountain  ran  be 
tween  them  and  the  goal.  Again  he  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  this  time  without  protest  on  her  part,  and 
bore  her  across.  The  rain,  broken  into  a  mist  by 
the  wind,  filled  their  mouths,  nostrils,  and  eyes. 
They  could  scarcely  breathe,  or  see.  Once  he  took 
a  clean  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  unfolded  it, 
and  without  apology  wiped  her  face. 

"You  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  baby,"  she  said, 
but  the  act  had  not  displeased  her.  It  was  sig 
nificant  that  he  called  her  "Miss  Rowland"  the 
next  moment,  and  that  he  wore  the  same  air  of 
humility  as  when  she  had  "hired"  him  in  the  village 
store. 

Another  flash  of  lightning  revealed  the  dark,  low 
roof  of  the  hut,  and  with  his  arm  around  her  waist 
they  hastened  to  it.  Its  door  was  closed,  but  not 
locked,  and  he  easily  pushed  it  open.  Drawing  her 
inside,  he  stood  facing  her.  Neither  spoke;  both 
were  panting  from  the  loss  of  breath. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  said.  "You  will  take 
cold  in  those  wet  things.  I  must  make  a  fire." 

"A  fire?"  she  said.    "How  could  you?" 

"I  have  matches  in  a  water-proof  box,"  he  ex- 
191 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

plained.  "But  I'll  have  to  be  careful  in  opening  it. 
My  hands  are  dripping  wet." 

"Shake  them  out  on  the  floor,"  Mary  suggested, 
"and  you  can  then  pick  them  out  separately." 

"Good!  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  it,"  he 
laughed.  He  took  the  box  from  the  pocket  of  his 
coat  and  carefully  emptied  the  matches  on  the  floor 
a  little  away  from  where  they  were  standing.  ' '  Now, ' ' 
he  said,  picking  one  up.  "Here  goes." 

It  failed,  owing  to  the  water  dripping  from  his 
hands.  He  tried  again.  This  time  he  was  success 
ful  and  he  raised  the  burning  match  above  his  head. 
The  tiny  flame  lit  up  the  room.  Bare  walls  of  logs 
from  which  the  dry  bark  was  falling,  a  floor  of 
planks,  a  roof  of  split-oak  boards,  a  chimney  of  logs 
plastered  over  with  clay,  and  a  broad  stone  hearth 
were  all  they  saw,  save  a  heap  of  fire-wood  and  small 
pieces  of  pitch-pine  in  one  corner. 

"Fine!"  he  cried.  "That  wood  will  burn  like 
tinder.  It  looks  to  be  very  old."  A  gust  of  damp 
wind  from  the  door  blew  the  light  out.  Again  they 
were  in  the  dark.  "Wait,"  he  advised.  "I'll  gather 
up  some  of  that  dry  bark,  and  then  we'll  set  it  on 
fire." 

"Yes;  it  will  burn  easily,"  she  agreed. 

He  noted  that  she  spoke  as  if  she  were  shivering 
with  cold,  and  he  made  haste  to  get  the  bark.  With 
his  hands  full,  he  groped  to  the  chimney  and  bent 
down  over  the  ashes  in  the  fireplace.  She  picked 
up  a  match  and  succeeded  in  striking  it.  She  held 
it  against  the  heap  of  bark.  The  bark  ignited.  He 
hastened  for  more,  and  then,  as  the  flame  was  now 
.sufficient,  he  added  small  pieces  of  wood,  and  then 

192 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

larger  sticks.  Soon  a  fine  fire  was  crackling  and 
blazing  in  the  crude  stone  fireplace, 

"You  must  get  dry,"  he  said,  taking  his  coat  from 
her  shoulders.  "Everything  depends  on  it." 

She  laughed  almost  merrily,  as  they  stood  side  by 
side  in  the  rising  steam  from  their  drying  clothing. 

"You  must  sit  down,"  and  put  out  your  feet  to 
the  fire,"  he  declared.  "I'll  make  a  seat  for  you." 
He  brought  some  logs  from  the  corner  and  made  two- 
heaps  of  them  about  five  feet  apart,  and  then  raised 
one  of  the  loose  floor  boards,  and  laid  it  across,  thus 
forming  a  sort  of  bench.  She  smiled  gratefully; 
sat  down  and  put  out  her  feet  to  the  flames. 

"You  must  take  off  your  shoes  and  stockings  and 
dry  them,"  he  said,  with  the  firm  confidence  of  a 
family  doctor. 

"Must!"  She  repeated  the  word  to  herself,  and' 
bit  her  lip;  she  made  no  motion  to  obey  his 
wishes. 

"Surely  you  are  not  offended  at  what  I  said,"  he 
went  on,  after  a  little  silence.  "It  is  a  serious  thing, 
you  know.  Dry  feet  at  such  a  time  as  this  are  more 
important  than  a  dry  body." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind!"  she  answered,  and  she  bent 
down  and  began  to  fumble  the  strings  of  her  shoes; 
but  the  water  had  drawn  the  knot  tight  and  her 
fingers  were  benumbed  with  cold. 

"You  must  permit  me,  Miss  Rowland,"  Charles 
said,  calmly.  He  sank  on  his  knees  before  her  and, 
without  waiting  for  her  consent,  he  skilfully  loosened 
the  knotted  string  and  drew  her  shoe  off.  "  Now  the 
other,  please." 

She  thrust  it  out,  but  rather  reluctantly.     "You 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

have  such  a  strange  way  about  you!"  she  said, 
coldly.  "That  is,  I  mean — sometimes." 

The  string  he  was  now  working  on  seemed  to  be 
more  tightly  tied,  and  she  heard  him  mutter  some 
thing  impatiently :  "I  don't  want  to  cut  it. "  (Surely 
he  had  not  heard  her  last  remark,  she  thought.) 

But  he  evidently  had  heard,  for  when  he  had  re 
moved  the  other  shoe  he  said,  ' '  So  you  think  I  have 
a  strange  way  about  me  at  times,  do  you?" 

He  had  seated  himself  on  the  bench  beside  her. 
Her  head,  neck,  and  shoulders  in  the  red  glow  of 
the  fire  formed  an  exquisite  picture.  She  had  re 
moved  her  hat,  and  her  damp  hair  shone  like  a  mass 
of  bronze  cobwebs.  She  was  so  dainty,  so  frail, 
so  appealing!  Not  only  had  her  young  soul  been 
torn  to  shreds,  but  the  very  elements  had  pounced 
upon  her  defenseless  body.  In  her  he  saw  the  richest 
embodiment  of  a  long  line  of  patrician  ancestors. 
How  strange  the  whole  situation!  There  she  was 
storm-bound  with  a  man  whom  the  law  held  as  no 
better  than  a  felon,  a  nameless  wanderer  with  no 
possibility  of  a  respectable  future  ahead  of  him. 
She  was  silent,  and  he  repeated  what  he  had  said. 

"I  don't  mean  anything  wrong,"  she  replied, 
smiling  on  him  sweetly.  "Now  I  suppose  you  will 
order  me  to  take  off  my  stockings.  I  don't  have  to, 
for  they  are  drying  as  they  are.  See!" 

She  had  put  her  small  feet  out  to  the  fire.  Her 
whole  form  was  veiled  in  the  rising  vapor.  It  seemed 
to  him  to  be  a  mist  of  enchantment  out  of  which 
her  eyes  shone  and  her  voice  came  like  inexplicable 
music.  An  exquisite  fancy  held  him  in  its  grasp. 
His  life  and  hers  were  but  of  a  night's  duration. 

194 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

They  were  besieged  in  an  impenetrable  forest  by 
wild  beasts,  the  prey  of  elemental  forces.  For  the 
moment  she  was  his,  all  his  own,  Frazier,  her  family, 
conventions,  his  own  misfortune,  would  ultimately 
part  them,  but  now  in  his  ecstatic  vision  she  was  his, 
and  the  world  might  end  with  the  dawn,  for  aught 
he  cared.  But  one  thing  he  suddenly  began  to  fear, 
and  that  was  that  thoughts  of  her  brothers'  trouble 
might  again  depress  her.  So  he  bent  all  his  energies 
toward  her  entertainment.  He  told  her  of  a  trip 
to  Europe  he  had  made  just  after  leaving  college, 
filling  his  account  with  amusing  anecdotes.  Her 
eyes  were  bent  on  him  with  a  stare  of  profound 
interest. 

"How  wonderful,"  she  exclaimed,  "to  meet  one 
who  has  been  there  so  recently !  It  has  always  been 
like  a  dream  of  heaven  to  me.  My  mother  went 
when  she  was  a  girl,  and  she  used  to  tell  us  about 
it  when  we  were  children.  There  were  some  far-off 
cousins  of  hers  living  in  London.  The  head  of  the 
house  had  a  title.  I  don't  remember  what  it  was — 
my  father  knows.  Strange  to  say,  he  is  proud  of  it, 
as  if  it  would  help  us  now.  I  suppose — I  suppose  " — 
her  voice  shook  and  mellowed  as  it  fell  deeper  into 
her  throat — "that  those  people  over  there  would 
not  care  to  keep  up  with  us,  now  that  we  are  so 
poor  and  my  brothers  are — like  they  are.  I  have 
an  idea  that  old  English  families  are  very  particular 
when  it  comes  to  the  violation  of  the  law." 

"Don't  think  of  your  brothers'  trouble,"  he 
pleaded.  "Let  us  try  to  have  cheerful,  hopeful 
thoughts." 

"I  am  trying,"  she  responded,  but  even  while 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

•she  was  speaking  her  face  and  tone  showed  the 
futility  of  her  effort.  "Poor  Martin!"  she  went  on. 
' '  Do  you  know,  somehow,  I  feel  more  for  him  than 
for  Kensy.  Kensy  is  rougher,  harder,  less  sensitive, 
less  imaginative.  Martin  has  always  been  my  baby 
of  the  two.  He  was  sick  once  several  years  ago,  and 
I  waited  on  him,  nursed  him,  and  petted  him  nearly 
to  death.  This  is  terrible  on  him.  He  may  be  awake 
now  in  that  cold,  damp  cave,  and  with  those  ghastly 
thoughts  to  keep  him  company.  Oh,  life  is  a  tragedy, 
Mr.  Brown !  As  a  child,  I  thought  it  was  an  endless 
dream  of  beauty  and  joy,  and  I  have  waked  to  this 
—to  this!" 

He  tried  again  to  cheer  her  with  his  stories,  but 
her  sweet  face  held  shadows  which  he  could  not 
banish.  Now  and  then  she  would  smile  faintly, 
but  he  saw  that  she  was  forcing  herself  to  do  so. 

Something  he  said  about  his  school-days  evoked 
a  sudden  question  for  which  he  was  not  prepared. 

"You  speak  of  your  home,  but  you  have  not  yet 
told  me  where  it  was,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  at  the  pool  of  water  which  had 
dripped  from  his  clothing,  and  hesitated.  His  pause 
brought  a  quick  remark  from  her. 

"Pardon  me,  I  have  no  right  to  ask,"  she  sighed. 

"But  you  have  the  right,"  he  floundered,  conscious 
of  the  flush  on  his  face  and  the  agitation  in  his  man 
ner.  It  is  only  that — that  I  have  put  it  behind  me 
forever.  It  is  mine  no  longer,  you  see." 

"Never  mind.  I'm  sorry  I  touched  upon  it." 
She  sighed  again  and  looked  through  the  open  door 
out  into  the  raging  wind  and  rain.  *'I'm  always 
prying  into  your  personal  affairs,  as  when  I  spoke 

196 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

of  the  photograph  of  the  pretty  little  girl  in  your 
room." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  noticed  the  picture  of  Ruth," 
he  said,  still  embarrassed,  "for  I  love  her  very 
dearly." 

"You  miss  her,  I  know  you  do,"  Mary  said, 
softly.  "The  picture  looks  as  if  you  had  carried  it 
in  your  pocket  for  a  long  time." 

"I  used  to  do  that,"  he  confessed,  "but  I  found 
that  it  kept  the  past  too  close  to  me.  Now  I  see  it 
only  just  before  going  to  bed." 

Suddenly  Mary  leaned  toward  him;  a  portion  of- 
her  wonderful  hair  fell  against  her  cheek;  her  eyes 
gleamed  as  if  with  coming  tears.  "Mr.  Brown," 
she  said,  "you  are  so  good  and  kind  and  noble  that 
I  am  going  to  pray  for  one  thing  in  particular  to 
happen  to  you.  God  may  have  wise  reasons  for 
withholding  it  from  you  just  at  present,  but  I  am 
going  to  pray  that  He  will  some  day  give  you  back 
your  child." 

' ' '  My  child !' "  He  groped  for  her  meaning.  ' '  She 
is  not  my  own  child.  She  is  only  my  niece." 

"Oh,  then  you  are  not  married!" 

"No,  and  I  never  have  been.  In  fact,  I  never 
can  be.  My  conduct  in  the  past  has  made  that  im 
possible.  Other  men  may  marry  and  have  children, 
but  I  am  not  like  them." 

"How  strangely  you  talk — how  very  strangely!" 
Mary  said,  her  eyes  still  tensely  strained  toward  his. 
' '  You  talk  as  if — as  if  there  were  certain  dishonorable 
things  against  you.  Why" — here  she  actually 
laughed  in  derision — "if  you  were  to  lay  your  hand 
on  an  open  Bible  and  say  that  you  were  dishonorable, 

197 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

or  ever  had  been,  i  d  not  believe  it !  It  isn't  in  you; 
it  never  was.  My  intuition  tells  me  so,  and  I  know 
I  am  right." 

"I  am  what  I  am,"  he  said,  sighing.  "I  won't  go 
into  it  all;  it  would  do  no  good.  I  have  no  right  to 
a  decent  place  in  any  society.  I  want  you  to  know 
me  for  what  I  am,  Miss  Rowland.  God  knows  I'll 
not  make  false  pretenses  while  I  am  under  your 
father's  roof.  I  am  here  to  work  for  you  both.  What 
I  was  when  you  picked  me  up  in  my  filth  and  squalor 
I  still  am  and  shall  continue  to  be." 

Mary  stood  up  and  turned  her  back  to  the  fire, 
to  dry  her  clothing.  He  rose  as  she  did  and  stood 
beside  her.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  near 
midnight.  He  showed  the  dial  to  her  in  the  fire 
light.  She  nodded  thoughtfully,  but  was  silent. 
The  rain  was  steadily  beating  on  the  roof,  a  newly 
made  brook  was  gurgling  and  swashing  past  the 
door.  The  wind  had  died  down.  Drops  of  water 
fell  through  the  low  chimney  into  the  hot  coals, 
but  not  in  sufficient  quantity  to  depress  the  fire, 
He  put  on  some  more  wood.  His  vision  of  the  short 
lived  possession  of  her  companionship  still  swirled 
about  him  like  ineffable,  soul-feeding  light.  He  could 
have  touched  her  with  his  hands;  he  almost  felt 
that  she  would  not  have  been  deeply  offended;  the 
yearning  to  do  so  rose  from  depths  that  could  not 
be  fathomed.  She  was  looking  at  him  steadily  from 
beneath  her  long  lashes,  the  lashes  which  gave  to 
her  features  the  evasive  expression  he  could  not 
describe. 

"How  strange  you  are!"  she  said,  softly,  sincerely. 
"I  don't  know  why  it  is,  Mr.  Brown,  but  when  I'm 

198 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

here  with  you  like  this  my  troubles  seem  to  stand 
aside.  I  almost  hope.  I  do — I  really  do." 

"I  was  wondering  if  your  father  will  worry,  know 
ing  that  we  are  out  in  the  storm,"  he  said. 

"No,  he  won't,  but  it  would  have  driven  my 
mother  crazy  with  anxiety.  Even  if  she  knew  we 
were  sheltered  here  she  would  worry.  She  belonged 
to  the  old  school.  The  fact" — Mary  laughed  softly 
— "that  we  have  no  chaperon  would  be  a  terrible 
misfortune.  But  don't  think  I  care  about  such 
things.  This  is  a  new  age  and  I'm  simply  a  hang 
over  from  an  older  one.  Even  if  the  rain  were 
to  let  up  we  couldn't  make  our  way  back  in  the 
dark.  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  wait  till  day 
light." 

"Your  clothing  is  quite  dry,"  he  said,  touching 
her  sleeve,  "and  so  is  my  coat.  Would  you  like  to 
recline  here  by  the  fire  and  take  a  nap?  I  can  put 
the  coat  down.  It  would  be  a  hard  couch,  but — 

"I'm  not  sleepy — not  a  bit!"  she  assured,  him; 
"but  you  must  be,  and  tired,  too,  after  all  you've 
been  through.  Suppose  you  lie  down  by  the  fire, 
and  I'll  keep  watch  over  you." 

He  smiled  and  flushed  as  he  declined,  and  then 
his  face  became  grave. 

"You  touched  upon  something  just  now,"  he 
faltered,  "that  perhaps  I  ought  to  think  about. 
Since  your  mother  would  not  have  quite  approved  of 
your  being  here  like  this  with  a  stranger,  there  may 
be  others  in  the  neighborhood  who  might  gossip 
about  it.  If  you  would  not  be  afraid  to  remain  alone, 
I  could  go  on  home  and  send  some  conveyance.  I 
can  find  the  way,  and  as  for  the  rain,  it's  nothing. 
14  199 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  have  often  worked  all  day  and  part  of  the  night 
up  to  my  knees  in  water." 

"How  silly  of  me  to  have  said  what  I  did!"  she 
exclaimed,  and  caught  his  arm.  He  felt  the  warmth 
of  her  pulsing  fingers  through  the  thin  sleeve  of  his 
shirt  as  she  turned  him  toward  her.  "Why  do  you 
hold  that  against  me?  I  wasn't  thinking  how  it 
sounded.  Why  did  you  speak  of  it?" 

"Because  I'd  rather  die  than  be  the  cause  of  the 
slightest  whisper  against  you,"  he  said,  reverently. 
"I  know  how  narrow-minded  small  communities 
are,  Miss  Rowland,  and  I  know  better  than  any  one 
else  how  little  I  have  to  recommend  me  to  strangers. 
I  am  worse  than  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
and  it  is  beyond  my  power  now  ever  to  change  their 
view." 

A  pained  look  crossed  Mary's  face.  She  sat  down 
again  and  put  her  feet  out  toward  the  fire.  She 
folded  her  arms.  "I  wish,"  she  said,  compressing 
her  lips,  "that  you  would  stop  abusing  yourself. 
The  rest  of  the  world  may  condemn  you,  as  you  say 
they  do,  but  I  shall  not.  I  have  known  a  good  many 
gentlemen  in  my  life,  but  I've  never  met  one  in  whom 
I  had  more  confidence.  I  could  swear  by  you.  You 
may  think  that  strange,  but  I  could.  I  feel  the 
truth  streaming  from  your  whole  personality,  your 
voice,  your  eyes,  your  very  silence  at  times.  I  don't 
know  how  it  was,  but  in  some  way  you  have  not 
been  fairly  treated.  You  have  not !  You  have  not ! 
I  thought  it  might  be  perhaps  an  unfortunate  mar 
riage,  but  since  it  is  not  that  it  is  something  else. 
You  seem  to  me  to  be  the  loneliest  man  in  all  the 
world,  with  a  great  aching  heart;  but  notwith- 

200 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

standing  that  you  are  thinking  and  acting  only  for 
me.  Do  you  think  I  can  overlook  that  sort  of  thing? 
Mr.  Brown,  you  are  helping  me,  and  if  I  am  not  able 
to  help  you  some  day  I  shall  never  be  content." 

He  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders.  "Don't  think 
of  me  at  all,"  he  sighed.  "I  am  responsible  for  my 
position  in  life,  but  I  am  not  unhappy — I  really 
am  not.  There  is  such  a  thing,  Miss  Rowland,  as 
throwing  off  an  old  shackled  life  for  a  new,  freer  one; 
and  the  new  one  will  be  normal,  if  the  old  one  is 
crushed  out  completely.  It  is  simply  a  psychological 
fact.  The  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world  is 
autosuggestion.  If  one  holds  before  himself  con 
stantly  the  thought  that  things  are  beautiful  they 
will  be  so.  If  he  thinks  otherwise,  he  thereby  damns 
himself.  When  it  became  necessary  for  me  to  adopt 
my — my  present  way  of  living,  I  determined  always 
to  look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  rare  adventure,  and  it 
has  been  one  full  of  something  like  hope.  Since  I 
came  to  work  for  you  and  found  you  in  trouble  I 
have  thought  of  nothing  but  the  prospect  of  seeing 
you  happy  again." 

The  girl  was  strangely  moved.  She  had  lowered 
her  head,  and  he  looked  down  now  only  on  the  mass 
of  wonderful,  firelit  hair  that  hid  her  face  from  view. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  she  suddenly  said,  huskily, 
and  he  obeyed.  She  was  silent.  The  rain  still  beat 
heavily  on  the  boards  overhead;  the  mountain 
streams  still  gurgled  and  sang.  The  wind  had  died 
down.  The  darkness  was  heavy  and  thick. 

Presently  Mary  seemed  to  find  her  voice.  She 
raised  her  head  and  smiled  sweetly  as  she  remarked : 
' '  How  strange  we  two  are !  Life  is  beating,  pounding, 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

crushing  us — you  in  one  way  and  me  in  another; 
and  yet  here  we  are  like  two  ants  huddled  together  on 
a  floating  chip,  drifting  we  know  not  where.  I  cling 
to  you  for  support,  and  I  wish  it  were  so  that  you 
could  cling  to  me.  The  only  difference  is — well, 
you  know  why  I'm  on  the  chip,  but  I  may  only 
surmise  why  you  are  on  it.  I'll  bet  I  know,  though; 
I'll  bet  I  know/'  was  her  afterthought. 

"You  know  what  ?"  he  asked,  startled  slightly,  and 
he  sat  wondering  what  she  would  say  as  she  locked 
her  hands  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"Well,  I'll  bet  there  is  one  true  explanation.  The 
thing  you  are — are  involved  in — the  thing  that 
caused  you  to  leave  home,  has  to  do  with  the  welfare 
of  others." 

"Why  do  you  think  that  ?"  he  asked,  half  fearfully. 

"Because  you  are  that  rare  type  of  man,"  she 
returned. 

"I  have  nothing  in  the  way  of  self-defense  to 
offer,"  he  answered.  "My  early  life  was  a  mistake. 
I  may  be  atoning  for  it  a  little.  I  sometimes  hope 
so.  You  are  right  in  one  guess — some  others  are 
the  better  and  happier  for  my  absence.  It  is  so 
that  I  can  never  return;  that  is  settled  for  all  time. 
The  new  life  is  all  that  I  have,  but  I  assure  you  it 
isn't  bad.  It  is  heaven  compared  to  the  one  I 
renounced. 

So  the  night  passed.  The  rain  ceased  toward 
dawn,  but  there  was  little  light  till  the  sun  was  up. 
Then  they  fared  forth  over  the  wet,  rain-washed 
ground  for  home.  The  sun  was  breaking  through 
a  cloud  when  they  reached  the  old  house. 

202 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Rowland  was  on  the  back  porch  when  they  ap 
peared  before  him,  wet  to  the  waist  from  contact 
with  the  dripping  weeds  and  bushes  through  which 
they  had  made  their  way.  He  seemed  not  much 
surprised. 

"I  thought  you'd  find  shelter  somewhere,"  he 
said,  casually.  "I  sat  up  most  of  the  night  on  my 
book.  I  was  trying  to  tie  the  main  branch  of  the 
Westleighs  to  our  line  through  the  Barbadoes  record, 
and  I  noticed  how  hard  it  rained." 

"How  is  Tobe  Keith?"  the  girl  broke  in  to  ask. 

"He  is  just  the  same — no  better  and  no  worse," 
Rowland  answered.  "That  is  a  late  report,  too.  I 
got  it  from  Tom  Gibbs,  who  passed  along  just  now 
and  stopped  to  let  me  know." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad,  I'm  glad  he  is  not  worse!"  Mary's 
face  beamed  faintly.  "I  was  afraid  we'd  get  bad 
news.  Poor  Martin!  He  may  think  the  worst  has 
happened."  She  turned  to  Charles.  "Will  you  get 
your  breakfast  now,  or  wait  till  you  change  your 
clothing?" 

"I  don't  mind  ;'  ~  ;1?rr-nrjess,"  he  smiled.  "Is  it 
ready?" 

It  was  on  the  table  and  he  went  in  alone,  while 
Mary  ran  up  to  her  room.  Returning  half  an  hour 
later,  she  found  that  he  was  gone. 

"He  was  in  de  kitchen  des  now,  young  miss,"  ex 
plained  Zilla,  "en'  he  seed  de  basket  er  stuff  I  had 
fixed  raidy  fer  de  boys  t'  eat,  en'  picked  it  up  en' 
said  he  was  gwine  tek  it  ter  um." 

' '  What  ? ' '  Mary  asked .  ' '  You  don '  t  mean  that  he 
has  gone  back?" 

"Yassum.  Mr.  Brown  say  Martin  is  worried,  en* 
203 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

he  wants  ter  tell  'im  dat  Tobe  Keith  ain't  no  wuss 
dan  he  was  yistiddy.  I  tol*  Mr.  Brown  ter  wait  till 
you  come  down,  but  he  said  dar  wasn't  no  time  to 
lose.  He  said  Martin  looked  sorter  puny-like  en' 
needed  'couragement.  Yo'  pa  seed  'im  start  out, 
en'  didn't  say  nothin'  erginst  it." 

It  was  as  if  Mary  had  something  further  to  say, 
but  she  restrained  herself.  She  went  back  to  her 
room,  ascending  the  stairs  rapidly.  Her  window 
looked  out  toward  the  hiding-place  of  her  brothers, 
and  crossing  a  little  glade  beyond  the  barn  she  saw 
Charles,  the  basket  on  his  arm.  He  was  striding 
vigorously  toward  the  forest.  In  a  moment  he  was 
out  of  sight  and  Mary  turned  from  the  window.  By 
her  bureau  she  stood  motionless,  full  of  thought. 
Presently  she  heard  Zilla  calling  to  her,  and,  answer 
ing,  she  went  slowly  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER   XI 

ABOUT  noon  Charles  returned.  Mary,  at  the 
window  of  the  kitchen,  saw  him  emerge  from 
the  wood  back  of  the  barn  and  come  toward  the 
house.  There  was  a  vague  droop  of  weariness  on 
him  of  which  he  seemed  unaware.  She  met  him  in 
the  front  hall;  his  eyes  fell  under  her  stare  and  he 
flushed. 

"Why  did  you  go?"  she  asked,  reproachfully. 

He  gave  one  of  his  characteristic  shrugs  and  began 
to  fumble  in  his  coat  pocket  for  a  note  which  he 
finally  handed  her. 

"It  is  from  Martin,"  he  said.  "They  managed  to 
keep  dry  last  night,  I  understand.  They  were  glad 
to  get  the  basket.  The  water  spoiled  most  of  the 
other  things  and  they  were  hungry." 

She  read  the  note. 

It  ran:  "  DEAR  Sis, — How  sweet  and  good  of  you  to  send  Mr. 
Brown  back  so  quickly!  I  couldn't  have  stood  the  suspense 
any  longer.  I  was  afraid  Tobe  was  dead — I  thought  it  all  night 
during  that  awful  rain.  I  couldn't  sleep,  but  maybe  I  can  now. 
Don't  let  Mr.  Brown  leave  us.  He  sat  and  talked  to  us  this 
morning  for  an  hour,  and  I've  never  heard  from  human  lips 
the  sort  of  things  he  said.  He  helped  me  a  lot;  he  was  so  kind 
and  gentle  and  kept  putting  himself  up  as  a  man  who  had  made 
mistakes  and  suffered.  Oh,  he  is  wonderful,  wonderful!  Even 
Ken  listened  close  and  seemed  affected.  He  is  our  friend.  He 

205 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

r 

shows  that.  ?±e  wants  to  help  us,  and  he  will  if  he  can.  He 
used  to  drink,  but  gave  it  up;  he  says  it  is  easy.  He  has  made 
me  decide  to  act  differently  in  the  future — that  is,  if  Tobe  lives." 


Mary  read  the  rest  of  the  note,  folded  the  paper, 
and  thrust  it  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  Charles 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
his  boots  covered  with  mud. 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  tire  yourself  out  like  that," 
she  said,  gratefully,  "but  I'm  glad  you  went.  From 
this  note  I  see  how  much  good  you  have  done  my 
poor  brothers.  Now  listen  to  me — I  will  have  my 
way  about  this.  Go  up  to  your  room,  take  off  those 
damp  things  and  go  to  bed.  I  am  going  to  be  your 
nurse  for  to-day,  an}nvay.  I'll  bring  you  your  lunch 
and  you  may  take  it  in  bed,  and  then  go  to  sleep." 

He  laughed  lightly  sri "  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Really,  you  must  not  me,  baby  of  a  great  hulk 
like  me,  Miss  Rowland.  I've  .  through  things 
ten  times  as  bad  as  that  little  vva.>:.  I  simply 
couldn't  eat  in  bed.  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  was  about  to  protest,  but  he  left  her  and 
ascended  the  stairs. 

Coming  down  a  few  minutes  afterward,  he  saw  a 
saddled  horse  at  the  gate  and  heard  voices  in  the 
parlor. 

His  spirits  sank,  for  he  recognized  the  horse  as  the 
one  Albert  Frazier  had  ridden  when  he  had  first 
seen  him.  He  caught  a  few  words  the  visitor  was 
saying  in  his  gruff,  unpolished  way. 

"You  are  too  high-strung  and  nervous,  little  girl. 
All  is  well  so  far.  Leave  my  brother  to  me.  I'm 
pulling  the  wool  over  his  eyes,  all  right.  I've  made 

206 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

'im  think  the  boys  are  on  their  way  to  Texas,  and 
if  Tobe  lives—" 

Unwilling  to  listen,  Charles  passed  on  into  the 
sitting-room.  Glancing  through  the  open  doorway 
into  the  dining-room,  he  saw  that  the  cloth  was  not 
yet  spread  on  the  table  for  luncheon,  and  he  sat 
down  to  wait.  The  voices  still  came  from  the  parlor, 
but  he  did  not  catch  any  part  of  what  was  being 
said.  Zilla  entered  the  dining-room  and  spread  the 
cloth  on  the  table.  Presently  Frazier  was  heard 
leaving.  His  heavy  boots  clattered  on  the  steps, 
and  the  gate-latch  clicked  as  he  went  out.  Then 
Mary  came  in.  She  did  not  know  that  he  was  there 
and  he  surprised  an  unreadable,  almost  hunted  ex 
pression  on  her  face. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  on  seeing  him,  "so  dinner 
is  not  ready?  Mr.  Frazier  could  not  stop.  He  is 
working  hard  to  keep  the  sheriff  off  my  brothers' 
track.  He  says  when  he  left  town  Tobe  Keith  was 
just  the  same.  The  doctors  at  Carlin  are  afraid 
to  probe  for  the — the  ball.  They  have  held  a  con 
sultation,  and  agreed  that  the  great  specialist, 
Doctor  Elliot  of  Atlanta,  might  operate  and  save 
him.  They  refuse  to  undertake  it  themselves." 

"Then  this  Doctor  Elliot  ought  to  come  and  see 
him,"  Charles  said. 

"But  Doctor  Elliot  is  so  busy  that  he  never  leaves 
Atlanta,  except  in  instances  where  enormous  fees 
are  paid.  The  Carlin  doctors  say  that  Tobe  ought 
to  be  taken  to  him.  They  say  it  would  be  safe  to 
move  him  that  distance." 

"Then  he  must  be  moved,"  said  Charles. 

"Yes,  he  must  go,"  Mary  agreed.  "The  only 
207 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

thing  is  that  it  will  cost  considerable.  You  see, 
Tobe  and  his  mother  (she  is  a  widow)  are  awfully 
poor.  Yes,  the  money  must  be  gotten  up,  and  I 
must  get  it." 

"You?"  Charles  cried.    "Why  should  you?" 

"Because  no  one  else  will  do  it.  Even  my  father 
has  the  silly  idea  that  we  ought  not  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it,  because  it  would  look  as  if  we 
admitted  the  boys'  guilt.  That  is  rubbish.  A  man's 
life — three  lives — are  at  stake.  Yes,  I  must  raise 
four  hundred  dollars.  They  say  it  will  cost  that 
much,  including  transportation,  nurses,  and  the 
like.  I  may  be  able  to  borrow  it  from  some  one, 
but  we  are  hard  run.  Father  is  over  his  head  in 
debt.  I  know  where  I  can  get  the  money — in  fact, 
it  has  been  offered  to  me  already — but  I  don't  like 
to  take  it.  I  have  my  reasons  for — for  not  wanting 
to  take  it." 

"It  was  offered  you  this  morning — not  many 
minutes  ago,"  Charles  said,  fiercely  and  impulsively. 

She  looked  up  in  mild  surprise  at  his  tone  and  the 
rebellious  glare  in  his  eyes,  and  then  said,  slowly  and 
wonderingly : 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  blurted 
from  the  depths  of  his  restrained  passion.  "Some 
thing  tells  me  that  this  Mr.  Frazier  wants  to  furnish 
it,  and  also  that  you  shrink  from  being  in  his  debt." 

Mary  avoided  his  desperate  gaze.  "You  are  a  great 
reader  of  minds,"  she  faltered.  "Many  men  would 
make  me  angry  by  saying  what  you  are  saying,  but 
I  can't  be  offended  with  you.  It  is  strange,  but 
nothing  you  could  do  or  say  would  annoy  me.  Well, 

208 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

you  are  right.  As  I  told  you  once,  Mr.  Frazier  and 
I  are  not  actually  engaged.  Somehow,  I  want  to  be 
free  in  that  way  a  little  longer.  I'm  so  young,  you 
know,  that  marriage  does  not  appeal  to  me  yet. 
Mr.  Frazier  has  helped  my  father  raise  money  in 
several  instances,  but  I  have  never  felt  that  those 
transactions  bound  me  in  any  way ;  but  I  know,  and 
he  feels,  that  this  particular  offer  of  his — "  Her  voice 
sank  and  trailed  away  into  inaudibility. 

' '  That  if  you  accepted  this  offer  it  would  be  bind 
ing?"  Charles  threw  into  the  gap. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  flushed  slightly.  She 
was  very  erect,  very  stately.  Somehow  he  thought 
of  her  as  a  captured  young  queen  suffering  under  the 
indignities  of  her  enemies.  She  'made  no  answer,  and, 
leaning  toward  her,  he  repeated  his  words  even  more 
earnestly  and  in  greater  agitation. 

"Yes,  as  I  look  at  it,  the  acceptance  would  bind 
me,"  she  finally  gave  out.  "I  could  not  take  the 
money  otherwise,  for  I  simply  have  no  way  of  paying. 
He  put  it  that  way  himself;  that  he  was  as  much 
interested  in  my  brothers  as  I,  because,  in  a  sense, 
they  would  be  his  brothers." 

Charles  was  pale;  he  was  trembling;  he  knew 
that  his  voice  was  unsteady,  for  his  whole  being  was 
surcharged  with  a  passion  which  his  reason  could  not 
justify,  and  which  his  sheer  helplessness  only  in 
tensified. 

"You  must  not  accept  his  money;  you  must  not 
bind  yourself,"  he  cried. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  with  the  half-eager  look  even 
a  desperate  woman  may  wear  when  facing  the  evi 
dence  of  a  man's  growing  passion  for  her. 

209 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Because  you  don't  love  him,"  was  the  reply 
which  further  fed  her  curiosity  as  to  his  trend  of 
thought.  "You  couldn't  love  such  a  man.  He  is 
incapable  of  appreciating  you.  For  two  such  persons 
to  marry  would  be  a  crime  against  the  holiest  laws 
of  the  universe." 

"I  can't  quite  agree  with  you,"  she  replied,  as 
she  slowly  shook  her  proud  head.  "You  see,  Mr. 
Brown,  there  are  things  more  important  than  even 
marriage.  It  is  important  that  I  save  my  brothers, 
for  their  own  sakes.  I  don't  count.  If  I  should  have 
to  accept  this  money,  it  may  save  Tobe  Keith  and 
my  dear  boys."  She  laughed  half -bitterly.  "What 
would  I  care  after  that?  Do  you  think  I  would  be 
grudge  the  price ?  Never,  and  I'd  be  as  true  a  wife  as 
ever  was  bought  in  a  slave-mart  in  the  Orient. 
Always — always  after  that  I'd  know  positively  that 
I'd  accomplished  some  actual  good  in  life." 

"Never!  never!"  he  cried.  "It  would  be  wrong 
unpardonably  wrong!" 

"How  can  you  say  that — you,  of  all  men?"  she 
suddenly  demanded.  "Didn't  you  intimate  last 
night  that  by  giving  up  your  home  and  becoming 
a  wanderer  you  had  helped  make  others  happy?" 

"That  was  different,"  he  flashed  out.  "I  was  a 
worthless  drunkard,  a  disgrace  to  my  home,  rela 
tives,  and  friends.  I  was  compelled  to  leave,  any 
way.  I  could  not  have  held  my  head  up  another 
day.  But  it  is  different  with  you.  You  have  been 
nothing  but  a  help  and  a  blessing  to  your  family 
and  friends.  You  deserve  all  that  life  can  possibly 
give  to  any  one,  and  you  must  get  your  just  dues." 

She  smiled  and  slowly  shook  her  head.    "You  are 

210 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

a  poor  witness  for  your  argument, ' '  she  said.  ' '  When 
the  time  came  you  forgot  yourself,  and  that  really 
is  the  ideal  course.  You  have  intimated  that  the  de 
cision,  whatever  it  was,  has  not  made  you  unhappy, 
and  I  think  it  will  be  the  same  with  me.  Thousands 
of  women  have  been  contented  after  marriage  with 
men  they  did  not  love  very  deeply.  Women  have 
even  married  for  sordid  reasons  alone,  and  led  normal 
lives  afterward.  Why  should  I  not  take  the  risk 
with  such  a  motive  as  mine  would  be?  No,  if  Albert 
Frazier  is  the  means  of  saving  Tobe  Keith's  life 
and  restoring  my  brothers  to  me,  I  shall  withhold 
nothing  from  him  that  I  can  give.  Already  he  is 
working  night  and  day  to  prevent  their  arrest.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  them  behind  the  bars  of  a  jail. 
Kensy  could  stand  it,  but  not  my  poor,  sensitive, 
fanciful  Martin.  Let's  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  were  twitching 
under  a  flood  of  emotion  about  to  burst  from  its 
confines.  Here  the  bell  was  rung  for  luncheon. 

"You  go  on  in,"  Mary  said,  huskily.  "I  am  not  a 
bit  hungry.  You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you?"  She 
turned  toward  the  stairs  to  go  up  to  her  room,  and, 
like  a  man  walking  in  a  dream,  he  went  to  his  place 
at  the  table.  What  a  mockery  the  act  of  eating 
seemed  when  his  soul  was  in  such  turmoil!  On 
his  walk  home  he  had  felt  very  hungry,  but  his  ap 
petite  had  left  him.  He  ate  perfunctorily,  so  much 
so  that  Aunt  Zilla  showed  concern. 

"What  ails  yer,  sir?"  she  asked.  "Yer  ain't  gwine 
ter  mek  yo'se'f  sick,  is  yer?  Dat  strain,  two  trips 
in  one,  thoo  all  dat  mud  en'  slush,  was  onreasonable, 
'long  wid  no  sleep." 

211 


He  smiled  up  at  her.  His  contact  on  a  level  with 
the  lowest  of  mankind  had  broadened  his  sympathies 
for  humble  people,  and  he  felt  drawn  to  her,  for  her 
tone  was  unmistakably  kind. 

"No,  I'm  all  right,  Aunt  Zilla,"  he  answered. 

She  went  to  the  kitchen  for  some  hot  waffles, 
and  when  she  put  them  before  him  she  said:  "I'm 
gwine  tell  you  some'n',  Mr.  Brown.  I'm  gwine  ter 
tell  you,  'kase  you  is  er  stranger  in  dis  place  en' 
orter  know.  I  know  nice  white  folks  when  I  sees 
'urn,  en'  I  know  dey  ain't  nothin'  wrong  'bout  you. 
I'm  gwine  tell  you  ter  look  out  fer  dis  yer  Frazier 
man.  He  won't  do.  He  ain't  de  right  stripe,  en' 
ef  we-all  wasn't  po'  now  he  wouldn't  be  let  in  at  de 
front  do'  er  dis  yer  house.  Bofe  him  en'  his  brother 
come  fum  low  stock.  Deir  daddy  was  a  overseer 
dat  couldn't  write  his  name.  You  kin  tell  what  dis 
one  is  by  de  way  he  set  at  de  table  en'  handle  his' 
knife  en'  fork  en'  spout  wid  his  loud  mouf  wrhen 
Marse  Andy  is  talkin'.  Yes,  I'm  gwine  tell  you 
what  I  heard  'im  say  ter  Marse  Andy  when  dey  was 
in  de  settin'-room  des  now.  Marse  Andy  tol'  'im 
what  you  went  to  de  mountains  fer,  en'  he  fairly 
ripped  en'  snorted.  He  was  mad  'kase  dey-all  let 
you  know  de  boys'  hidin'-place.  He  said  you  couldn't 
be  trusted;  dat  you  had  some  secret  reason  fer 
helpin'  out  wid  de  boys.  He  said  de  sheriff  was  on 
de  lookout  fer  some  house-breakers  dat  was  wid 
de  circus,  en*  done  lef '  it  ter  'scape  fum  de  law.  De 
low  rapscallion  said  he  was  bounden  shore  dat  you 
was  one  of  'em.  He  said  he  was  des  lyin'  low,  right 
now,  but  dat  befo'  long  when  dey  got  de  papers  ter 
serve  on  you,  dey  was  gwine  arrest  you." 

212 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

Charles  laughed  softly.  "Well,  I  am  not  a  house 
breaker,  Aunt  Zilla,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  boasting 
of  what  I  am.  I  make  no  claims  of  any  sort,  but 
I  am  not  one  of  the  men  the  Fraziers  are  looking 
for." 

"Marse  Andy  tol'  'im  dat,"  the  woman  went  on, 
"but  it  des  made  'im  all  de  madder,  en*  he  went  on 
tryin'  ter  'suade  Marse  Andy  ter  send  you  off. 
Marster  has  ter  take  er  lot  off 'n  'im  'kase  he  owes 
'im  some  money,  I  hear  'um  say.  Dey  was  talkin' 
about  you  when  young  miss  come  in  en'  hear  'um." 

"Oh,  she  heard!"  Charles  exclaimed.  "I'm  sorry 
she  did." 

"Huh!  young  miss  don't  believe  it!"  Zilla  cried. 
"She  tol'  'im  so  ter  his  face,  en'  was  purty  sharp 
erbout  it,  too.  She  woulder  say  mo'  on  de  same  line 
ef  she  waju't  afeard  he'd  turn  erginst  de  boys.  I 
seed  she  was  ^ood  mad  en'  tryin'  powerful  hard  ter 
hold  in.  She  come  in  de  kitchen  while  'er  pa  en' 
Mr.  Frazier  was  talkin'  en*  tol'  me,  she  did,  dat  I 
mus'  not  listen  ter  anything  he  say  erginst  you.  She 
say  you  is  had  trouble  en'  is  all  erlone  in  de  world 
widout  kin  en'  er  home,  but  dat  you  was  er  honor 
able  gen'man.  Shucks!  I  already  knowed  dat.  I 
knows  white  folks  of  de  right  stripe  es  soon  as  I  see 
how  dey  handle  black  folks." 

Charles  thanked  her  warmly  and  left  the  table. 
The  soil  was  too  wet  for  working  in  the  field,  and 
he  was  about  to  sit  down  on  the  veranda  when  Mary 
suddenly  came  from  the  parlor  and  faced  him. 

She  was  smiling  sweetly.  "Do  you  know  what 
you  are  going  to  do?"  she  demanded,  playfully  and 
yet  firmly.  "You  are  going  right  up  to  your  room 

213 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  take  off  those  damp  clothes.  Then  you  are 
going  to  cover  up  in  bed  and  take  a  good  nap." 

"Am  I?"  he  retorted,  and  yet  he  was  deeply 
touched.  He  was  reminded  of  the  days  in  his  boy 
hood  when  his  mother  kept  watch  over  his  well- 
being,  and  of  a  later  period  when  Celeste  had  nursed 
him  after  his  unpardonable  debauches.  He  had 
been  a  homeless  wanderer  for  a  long  time,  and  here 
in  this  out-of-the-way  place  he  was  being  treated 
kindly,  almost  lovably.  He  told  himself  that  he  was 
unworthy  of  it,  and  yet  it  was  sweet,  so  comforting 
that  he  hoped  he  would  never  lose  it.  He  had  made 
friends  of  the  two  boys,  of  the  old,  preoccupied 
gentleman,  of  the  black  serving-woman,  and,  above 
all,  he  had  the  friendship  and  gratitude  of  the  mar 
velous  young  creature  before  him. 

"Yes,"  she  persisted,  "you  must  go;  and  don't 
wait,  either.  While  you  were  walking  your  wet 
things  were  not  so  bad,  but  you  are  inactive  now, 
and  may  take  cold." 

With  a  smile  he  obeyed  her.  In  his  room,  as  he 
undressed,  he  caught  sight  of  the  picture  of  Ruth 
on  his  bureau,  and  for  a  moment  his  eyes  lingered 
on  it.  It  was  the  only  visible  link  between  him  and 
a  life  that  was  never  to  be  his  again,  but  he  didn't 
care.  How  wonderful  the  new  life  was!  How  good 
to  feel  that  he  was  helping  that  particular  family 
to  bear  its  troubles!  What  did  his  own  amount  to? 
Nothing  at  all.  They  had  become  non-existent. 

He  was  about  to  lie  down  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  yard  below,  and,  going  to 
a  window,  he  looked  out.  Mary  was  mounting  the 
horse  Zilla  had  led  from  the  stables  to  the  block 

214 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

at  the  gate.  The  girl  had  donned  a  black  riding- 
skirt  and  she  wore  an  attractive  little  cap ;  she  took 
her  place  in  the  saddle  very  gracefully.  In  a  moment 
she  was  galloping  away  toward  the  village.  He 
surmised  what  it  meant.  She  was  going  to  get  news 
of  the  wounded  man's  condition. 

Charles  knew  there  was  no  sleep  for  him.     How 
could  he  sleep  when  his  mind  was  in  its  present 
turmoil?    It  was  impossible.    He  gave  up  the  effort, 
and,  dressing,  went  down-stairs. 
15 


CHAPTER   XII 

IT  was  well  for  Charles's  state  of  mind  that  he 
was  unaware  of  what  had  happened  at  his  home 
at  the  time  of  his  disappearance  and  shortly  after 
ward. 

Two  weeks  from  the  day  of  the  exposure  of  the 
affair  at  the  bank,  a  personage  of  great  importance 
in  the  estimation  of  the  Brownes  arrived  from  Eu 
rope.  It  was  an  uncle  of  William  and  Charles,  an 
elderly  man  of  considerable  wealth,  a  childless 
widower,  who,  having  long  since  retired  from  busi 
ness,  lived  on  a  private  income  and  traveled  ex 
tensively,  that  he  might  pass  the  remainder  of  his 
days  with  less  monotony  than  the  quiet  life  of 
Boston  afforded;  he  was  a  lonely  old  man  who  cared 
little  for  club  life  and  had  no  tastes  in  art,  music,  or 
literature. 

James  Browne  reached  the  home  of  his  nephew 
one  Sunday  morning  just  as  the  little  family  were 
leaving  the  table.  They  were  expecting  him,  but 
not  quite  so  soon,  for  they  had  thought  that  he 
would  stop  as  usual  for  a  few  days  in  New  York, 
where  he  had  landed. 

He  was  tall  and  slender,  with  a  pink  complexion 
and  rather  long  snow-white  hair  and  beard.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  angry,  and  it  was  evident  in  a 

216 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

moment  that  he  had  been  so  since  he  sailed  from 
Southampton  a  week  before.  He  shook  hands  with 
William  perfunctorily  and  kissed  Celeste  and  Ruth 
as  if  it  were  a  mere  matter  of  form  which  the  re 
lationship  demanded.  He  was  about  to  speak,  when 
Celeste  interrupted  him  by  rising  and  leading  the 
child  to  the  door,  where  she  was  turned  over  to  a 
maid. 

"We  think  it  best  for  her  not  to  hear  anything 
aboufrher  uncle,"  Celeste  said.  "She  simply  thinks 
he  has  gone  away  for  a  while.  She  was  devoted  to 
him." 

"She  may  as  well  know,"  the  old  man  retorted, 
gruffly.  "She  will  hear  it  quickly  enough.  I  heard 
it  even  in  London.  You  see,  my  name  was  mentioned 
along  with  all  the  rest  of  you.  The  papers,  even 
over  there,  had  accounts  of  it.  It  was  thought  the 
scoundrel  had  sailed  for  England  under  an  assumed 
name.  My  bankers  asked  for  particulars.  They 
are  more  blunt  about  such  things  over  there  than 
we  are.  Well,  well!  has  he  been  caught  yet?" 

"No,  not  yet,"  William  answered,  and  both 
Celeste  and  his  uncle  stared  at  him.  His  face  was 
very  rigid  and  had  the  bloodless  look  of  a  man  who 
was  in  a  low  nervous  condition. 

"Where  do  they  think  he  is?"  the  old  man  de 
manded. 

"No  one  knows,"  William  managed  to  say.  "He 
has  not  been  heard  of  since  he  left." 

The  elder  Browne  sniffed  in  disgust  and  stroked 
his  beard  with  his  carefully  manicured  fingers.  Will 
iam  noticed  that  their  nails  glistened  in  the  light 
from  the  window.  He  noticed  the  loose  English 

217 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

cut  of  his  uncle's  tweed  suit,  and  the  quaint  watch- 
fob  which  had  been  picked  up  somewhere  abroad. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  be  caught?"  the  old  man 
went  on. 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  say,"  was  William's  slow 
reply.  "The  police  have  not — not  consulted  me  as 
to  that.  The  bank  officials  don't  mention  it,  either. 
They  are  very  considerate.  In  fact,  they  are  very 
kind  and  anxious  to  have  me  feel — feel  that  they 
do  not  hold  me  responsible  for  what  happened*." 

"I  suppose  so,"  the  elder  Browne  said,  promptly. 
"I  read  that  you  had  made  the  loss  good.  Have 
you?" 

"Half  of  it  is  paid  already,  and  they  know  where 
the  rest  is  coming  from  in  a  few  days.  They  are 
well  secured  and  satisfied." 

"I  was  going  to  speak  of  that  debt  later,"  the 
old  man  said.  "We  are  all  one  family,  and  a  dis 
grace  like  this  against  our  name  and  blood  ought  to 
be  shouldered  equally,  as  far  as  cost  is  concerned. 
William,  I'm  going  to  pay  half  of  that  shortage.  I'll 
give  my  check  for  it  to-morrow.  I'll  see  Bradford 
in  the  morning.  Do  you  know,  I  don't  want  the 
scamp  brought  back  here.  I  think  when  the  loss  is 
paid  the  chase  will  let  up.  What  is  your  idea?" 

William  was  astounded  by  the  unexpected  offer, 
so  much  so  that  he  hardly  noted  the  questions  which 
followed  it. 

"I'm  afraid,"  William  answered,  "that  the  police 
will  not  be  influenced  by  it.  A  reward  has  been 
offered  and  the  detective  force  of  the  city  is  trying 
to  win  it.  The  offer  has  gone  to  other  cities  as  well. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  want  him  brought  back  and  tried 
218 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  sent  up,"  the  old  man  went  on,  frowning  and 
jerking  his  beard.  "The  papers  would  be  full  of  it 
again,  day  after  day,  and  everybody  would  be 
pitying  us.  I  don't  want  any  one's  pity.  I've  tried 
to  live  decently  myself,  and  at  my  time  of  life  I 
don't  deserve  all  this  publicity  for  no  fault  of  mine. 
I  must  say  that  I  liked  the  young  scamp,  even  at 
his  worst.  You  see,  I  never  thought  of  his  being 
anything  but  a  drunkard,  and  a  rather  good-na cured 
one  at  that.  He  was  always  doing  kind  things. 
I've  heard  of  some.  Michael  once  told  me  of  quite 
a  sum  Charlie  advanced  for  him  when  he  needed  it. 
Where  is  Michael?" 

"He  has  gone  to  New  York,"  Celeste  explained. 
"His  mother  lives  there,  and  is  not  very  well  again. 
We  are  expecting  him  home  soon.  Yes,  Charlie 
was  kind  to  him,  and  Michael  is  heartbroken  by 
what  has  happened." 

"Have  you  discovered  what  the  boy  was  investing 
in?"  the  old  man  asked.  "How  did  he  lose  such  a 
large  amount,  or  did  he  really  take  it  with  him,  as 
some  think?" 

William  had  become  pale.  He  lowered  his  eyes. 
He  had  the  look  of  a  man  on  trial  for  his  life.  The 
ordeal  was  more  severe  than  any  he  had  passed 
through  since  his  brother  left.  His  friends  and  as 
sociates  had  seldom  broached  the  topic,  but  the 
present  questioner  saw  no  reasons  for  reserve.  See 
ing  that  her  husband  was  overlooking  his  uncle's 
last  question,  Celeste  answered  it. 

"I  don't  think  he  had  a  large  amount  of  money 
when  he  left,"  she  said,  in  crisp,  firm  tones,  and 
William  felt  her  eyes  sweep  steadily  toward  him 

219 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

as  she  spoke.  ' '  That  seems  to  be  out  of  the  question, 
and  I  am  sure  that  William  agrees  with  me." 

"I — I've  never  said  anything  about  that,"  Will 
iam  stammered,  without  looking  at  either  his  wife 
or  his  uncle.  "I  only  know  that  Bradford,  the  direc 
tors,  and  the — the  police  department  have  made  no 
report  on  that  line." 

"Any  one  could  keep  such  transactions  hidden, 
could  they  not  ?"  Celeste  asked.  ' '  By  acting  through 
secret  agents  outside  of  Boston,  for  instance." 

"Yes,  oh  yes!"  the  old  man  answered.  "Many 
men  who  are  important  heads  of  great  concerns  and 
who  handle  the  public's  funds  often  speculate  that 
way,  on  the  quiet.  Banks  would  lose  their  deposi 
tors  if  such  dealings  were  known.  Agents  can  easily 
be  found  who  will  hold  their  tongues.  So  you  think 
the  boy  may  have  some  associate,  Lessie?" 

"I  didn't  say  that,  exactly,"  Celeste  retorted, 
coldly.  "I  only  thought  that  William  might  know 
if  such  an  agent  could  have  been  employed." 

No  reply  was  forthcoming  from  the  pale  man  of 
whom  she  was  speaking,  and  suddenly  the  new 
comer  turned  upon  him.  "What  is  the  matter  here, 
anyway?"  he  almost  fiercely  demanded. 

"Matter?"  William  asked,  with  a  start.  "Where? 
What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  we  don't  seem  to  be  getting  anywhere," 
the  old  man  answered,  petulantly.  "Both  of  you 
somehow  seem  changed.  You  don't  seem  to  know 
much  about  the  affair.  I  expected,  when  I  saw  you, 
to  learn  something  more  than  has  been  published, 
but  you  both  talk  in  riddles  and  in  a  shifting,  round 
about  way." 

220 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

To  his  astonishment,  Celeste  got  up  and  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other.  "You  must 
excuse  her,"  William  finally  said.  "She  is  all  upset 
over  it.  She  has  shut  herself  in  and  doesn't  go  out 
at  all  now.  She  has  refused  to  receive  several  callers. 
She  goes  about  with  Ruth  a  little,  but  that  is  all." 

"Ah,  I  see — the  shame  of  it,  I  presume!"  the  old 
man  said.  "Well,  I  can  sympathize  with  her.  She 
thought  a  lot  of  Charlie.  Perhaps  she  can't  find 
it  in  her  heart  to  blame  him  seriously.  Women  are 
that  way,  you  know.  She  used  to  overlook  his  wild 
conduct,  I  remember.  Well,  well!  Perhaps  we 
might  as  well  not  talk  about  it  before  her.  She 
seems  different  to  me — looks  as  if  she  were  soured 
on  everything  and  everybody.  Now  when  I  said 
just  now  that  I  was  going  to  pay  half  the  loss,  in 
stead  of  looking  pleased  I  thought  she  half  resented 
it." 

"You  must  not  blame  her,"  William  said,  with 
drawn  lips.  "She  has  a  lot  to  bear.  She  feels  the 
— the  disgrace  of  it  on  Ruth's  account." 

"We  all  feel  the  disgrace  of  it,"  the  old  man 
answered,  ' '  but  women  are  more  sensitive,  imagina 
tive,  and  high-strung  than  men." 

"Celeste  may  have  gone  to  see  about  your  room," 
William  said,  just  as  the  church-bells  began  ringing. 
He  caught  their  tones  and  hoped  that  they  would 
somehow  interrupt  a  conversation  which  he  felt  he 
could  no  longer  sustain.  The  old  man  was  on  his 
feet  now,  having  risen  at  the  departure  of  Celeste, 
and  he  began  to  stride  back  and  forth  across  the 
room.  He  folded  his  hands  and  wrung  them  to- 

221 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

-gether.  He  muttered  some  words  which  William 
failed  to  catch,  as  he  paused  at  a  window,  and  then 
he  came  back. 

"If  it  is  hard  for  me,  I  presume  it  is  even  harder 
for  you  to  bear,"  he  said,  aloud.  "On  the  way  over, 
as  I  sat  in  the  sun  in  my  steamer  chair,  with  nothing 
«lse  to  think  about,  I  often  pictured  you  there  at 
the  bank  with  those  associates.  My  reason  tells 
me  that  they  are  sympathetic  with  you  and  must 
feel  a  certain  regret  for  allowing  you  to  pay  back 
such  a  large  amount;  still;  if  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say  so,  you  must  feel  awkward.  You  must  meet  big 
depositors  who — well,  who  think  perhaps  that  you 
•ought  to  have  had  better  judgment  than  not  to 
have  kept  track  of  the  boy's  plunging.  To  have  re 
tained  a  dissipated  young  scamp  like  that  in  your 
employment  was  imprudent  in  itself,  to  say  nothing 
of  all  the  rest." 

"They  may  blame  me,"  William  said,  reluctantly. 
•"I  don't  know  how  they  feel,  or  how  they  talk  to 
gether  in  private.  I  only  know  they  still  seem  to 
have  confidence  in  me  and  in  my  business  judgment. 
God  knows  I  am  doing  the  best  I  can  to  run  things 
straight,  and  I  keep  showing  them  the  figures.  They 
laugh  at  me  for  being  so  particular,  and  assure  me 
that  it  is  unnecessary,  but  I  intend  to  keep  it  up." 

"This  is  a  hidebound,  Puritan  community,"  the 
old  man  responded,  with  a  slow  frown,  "and  I  feel 
that  you  are  against  conditions  at  the  bank  that 
you  don't  yet  fully  realize.  Bradford  and  the  others 
are  sly,  long-headed  business  men,  and  they  are 
not  going  to  tell  you  all  they  think." 

William  stared,  his  mouth  falling  open,  a  heavy 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

hand  splaying  over  the  cap  of  his  knee.  "I  don't 
understand,"  he  faltered.  "What  could  they  be 
keeping  from  me?" 

"Well" — and  the  old  man  seemed  to  be  probing 
his  vocabulary  for  adroit  words — "it  may  be  like 
this.  In  a  community  of  this  kind  there  is  perhaps 
a  certain  class  of  well-meaning  people  who  have 
the — the  old-fashioned  idea  that  dishonesty  runs 
in  the  blood  of  certain  families.  I  remember  that 
when  I  was  younger  I  imbibed  that  idea  from  some 
source  or  other.  It  is  silly,  of  course,  but  it  may 
exist,  and  if  there  is  any  place  that  it  would  be  apt 
to  thrive  it  would  be  among  a  lot  of  nervous  bank 
depositors  and  stockholders.  Now  that  is  one  thing 
I  have  come  to  fight  by  my  influence  and  with  my 
money." 

William's  groping,  even  bewildered,  stare  showed 
that  he  did  not  understand  what  his  uncle  was 
driving  at,  and  in  a  few  halting  words  he  managed 
to  say  so. 

"Why,  it  is  like  this,  my  boy,"  the  old  man  ex 
plained.  "I  know  Bradford  well,  and  several  of 
your  directors,  and  when  I  plank  down  my  half  of 
the  missing  money  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  take 
such  a  firm,  fatherly  stand  behind  you  that — well, 
two  of  us  fighting  for  the  family  honor  will  be  a 
stronger  force  than  one,  that's  all.  I  stand  well  here 
in  Boston,  I  know  that,  and  I  am  going  to  back  you." 

"I  haven't  really  felt  that  I  was  in  need  of— 
William  was  breaking  in,  but  his  uncle  did  not  suffer 
him  to  finish. 

"Well,  you  do  need  it,"  he  said,  sharply.  "I  can 
see  it  in  your  looks.  You  have  lost  weight.  You 

223 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

look  nervous.  You  have  an  agitated  manner.  You 
speak  in  jerks.  This  thing  is  killing  you.  Your  mind 
may  break  under  the  strain.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  hang 
about  the  bank.  Ill  transfer  my  chief  deposit — 
and  it  happens  to  be  a  big  one  just  now — from  New 
York  to  your  bank.  I'll  buy  all  the  floating  stock 
I  can  pick  up.  I'll  be  in  the  market  for  it  at  all 
times.  Now — now  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"It  will  help  wonderfully,"  William  declared,  with 
faintly  rising  fervor  which  in  a  moment  seemed  to 
pass  away,  for  Celeste  was  entering  the  room.  She 
came  in  softly  and  resumed  the  chair  she  had  left 
a  few  minutes  before. 

"Suppose  you  tell  her  what  I  am  going  to  do," 
the  old  man  said  to  his  nephew.  "It  may  brace  her 
up,  you  know." 

A  helpless,  bewildered  expression  filled  the  face 
of  the  younger  man.  He  hesitated,  licked  his  dry 
lips,  and  then  wiped  them  with  a  handkerchief  which 
he  had  kept  tightly  balled  in  his  hand.  "You  can 
do  it  better  than  I,"  he  managed  to  get  out.  "It 
is  most  kind,  and — and  thoughtful  of  you." 

"It  is  nothing  but  an  effort  to  defend  the  family 
honor,"  the  old  man  began,  and  he  repeated  what 
he  had  just  said  to  his  nephew,  and  with  some 
elaboration  of  details .  ' '  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' ' 
he  ended,  with  a  straight  look  into  the  face  of  the 
quiet  listener. 

"It  is  kind  of  you,"  she  answered,  coldly.  "It 
will  be  a  great  help  to  my  husband  at  the  bank. 
By  the  way,  between  you  two  do  you  expect  to  do 
anything  at  all  toward  helping  Charlie?" 

"Help  him!  How  can  we?"  the  old  man  asked, 
224 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

•with  a  startled  glance  at  his  nephew.   ' '  Do  you  mean , 
my  dear,  if  we  intend  to  help  him  escape  pursuit?" 

"If  he  has  to  escape,  yes.  What  can  he  do  alone, 
and  out  in  the  world  as  he  is  without  friends  or 
money?" 

"Money?  I  guess  he  has  plenty  of  that,  from  all 
accounts,"  and  her  uncle  suppressed  a  mirthless 
smile.  "Don't  you  think  so,  my  dear?" 

"I  have  an  idea  that  he  was  almost  penniless," 
Celeste  answered,  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  her  thin 
white  hands  clasped  firmly  in  her  lap. 

"Have  you  any  positive  evidence  of  that?"  the 
old  man  inquired. 

But  to  his  surprise,  Celeste  made  no  answer  beyond 
saying: 

' '  I  have  a  strong  feeling  that  he  needs  both  friends 
and  money." 

"But,"  her  uncle  fired  up  impatiently,  "how  can 
we  help  him?  Even  if  we  could  find  him,  and  didn't 
let  the  authorities  know,  we  would  be  aiding,  abet 
ting,  and  even  concealing  a  lawbreaker.  Oh  no,  my 
dear,  the  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  make  it  thoroughly 
known  that  we  have  cut  him  off,  that  we  are  ashamed 
of  the  relationship,  and  that  we  are  honest,  if  he  isn't. " 

Celeste  shrugged  her  shoulders;  an  evanescent 
sneer  curled  her  lip,  but  that  was  all.  Presently  she 
said:  "Your  room  is  ready.  You  must  be  tired  and 
dusty.  I'm  sorry  Michael  is  not  here  to  wait  on 
you,  as  he  used  to  do." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose,  and,  with  stilted  courtesy, 
so  did  the  two  men.  The  older  man  started  up  to 
his  room,  leaving  Celeste  and  her  husband  face  ta 
face. 

225 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"That  is  a  wonderful  plan  your  uncle  has,"  she 
said,  coldly.  "I  presume  it  will  work  well  in  your 
behalf.  Yes,  they  will  be  influenced  at  the  bank 
by  your  uncle's  money  and  backing.  If  they  have 
ever  blamed  you  for  employing  Charlie  they  won't 
any  more." 

"I  am  glad  for  Ruth's  sake — and  for  yours,"  Will 
iam  added.  "My  affairs  are  in  better  shape  now, 
anyway,  and  if  I  were  to  die — I  assure  you  I  don't 
feel  very  strong — you  and  the  child  would  be  fairly 
well  provided  for,  along  with  the  heavy  life  insurance 
I  carry." 

"I  am  not  afraid  that  you  will  die  soon,"  Celeste 
said,  in  a  low,  firm  voice.  "I  have  the  feeling  that 
you  will  be  permitted  to  live  long  enough  to  straight 
en  out  everything  in  your  life  that  should  be  at 
tended  to." 

He  took  her  arm,  leading  her  toward  the  door. 
"I  want  you  to  know  one  thing — I  want  you  to 
think  of  it  constantly,"  he  said,  tremulously.  "I 
mean  it  when  I  say  that  I'd  rather  die  than  bring 
trouble  down  on  you  and  our  little  girl.  In  a  situa 
tion  like  this  there  are  some  things  that  are  worse 
than  death.  And  you  must  remember  that  men 
sometimes  take  risks  for  the  sake  of  those  they  love 
that  they  would  not  take  for  themselves." 

The  face  of  the  little  woman  darkened  rebelliously. 
She  frowned  and  drew  her  arm  from  his  fawning 
grasp.  She  started  to  speak,  but  choked  up,  and, 
lowering  her  head,  she  went  up  the  stairs  hurriedly 
as  if  to  hide  her  rising  emotion.  Alone  in  her  room, 
she  stood  listening  to  the  ringing  of  the  church- 
bells.  She  went  to  a  window  and  looked  out. 

226 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Mason  parted  from  Charles  at  Carlin  he 
went  straight  to  New  York  without  stop 
ping.  It  had  been  his  intention  to  remain  in  the 
city  only  a  few  days,  but,  chancing  to  find  his  old 
room  at  Mrs.  Reilly's  unoccupied,  he  took  it;  he 
would  wait  for  letters  from  home  before  deciding 
what  to  do  in  the  future.  Having  sufficient  funds 
to  pay  his  way  for  a  while,  he  felt  rather  independent. 

One  morning  he  happened  to  be  passing  through 
Washington  Square  when  he  came  face  to  face  with 
a  man  whose  features  were  strangely  familiar,  and 
yet  Mason  could  not  tell  where  he  had  seen  him 
before.  It  was  evident,  too,  that  the  stranger  had 
recognized  him;  indeed,  there  seemed  to  be  a  flash 
of  surprised  delight  in  the  man's  eyes.  He  passed 
on,  and  Mason,  looking  back,  saw  that  the  man  was 
looking  back  also,  though  he  quickly  turned  his 
head  and  walked  on,  now  more  slowly. 

Seating  himself  on  a  park  bench  and  opening  a 
newspaper,  Mason,  by  looking  over  its  top,  kept  the 
man  in  view.  Where  had  he  seen  him?  he  asked 
himself.  Was  it  among  the  professional  followers  of 
the  circus ;  perhaps  he  was  some  one  he  had  chatted 
with  at  a  restaurant?  These  questions  were  un 
answered  till  a  little  thing  happened.  It  was  the 

227 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

surprising  act  of  the  stranger  in  pausing  behind 
the  great  arch  at  the  entrance  of  the  park  and  peering 
stealthily  at  him.  In  a  flash  it  came  to  Mason  that 
it  was  the  plain-clothes  detective  whom  he  had  first 
seen  at  Madison  Square  a  year'before,  who  had  fol 
lowed  him  and  Charles  to  their  rooms,  and  from 
whom  they  had  so  narrowly  escaped  by  flight  at 
night. 

"This  is  a  pretty  mess!"  Mason  muttered.  "Now 
he  will  perhaps  nab  me  as  a  witness  and  I'll  be  put 
through  some  sort  of  a  third  degree  to  force  me  to 
tell  where  Brown  is  and  what  I  know  about  him. 
I'll  make  a  move  and  see  what  he  will  do,  anyway." 

With  this  thought,  and  lowering  his  paper,  Mason 
rose,  sauntered  carelessly  along  the  walk  to  another 
bench,  and  sat  down.  Looking  toward  the  arch, 
he  saw  the  stranger  coming  in  his  direction.  Open 
ing  the  paper,  Mason  pretended  to  be  reading, 
though  he  could  still  see  the  approaching  man.  He 
reached  him,  but,  to  his  surprise,  passed  on.  How 
ever,  he  came  to  a  halt  near  by,  and,  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  short  coat,  he  stood  staring  hesi 
tatingly  at  Mason.  ' ' He  may  be  waiting  for  a  police 
man  to  help  him  take  me  in,"  was  Mason's  dejected 
mental  comment.  "I  think  I  am  in  for  trouble  this 
time  sure.  I  don't  see  any  bluecoat  about.  I  wonder 
if  I'd  better  make  a  run  for  it?" 

He  decided  that  such  a  course  was  impossible; 
the  detective  would  blow  a  whistle  and  some  one 
in  the  crowd  would  stop  him;  besides,  the  man 
looked  as  if  he  might  be  swift  of  foot.  "We  thwarted 
him  before,  and  he  will  run  no  chances  this  time," 
Mason  decided,  gloomily,  and  he  began  drawing 

228 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

mental  pictures  of  himself  seated  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  uniformed  officers  bent  on  locating  the 
man  in  whose  company  he  had  been  seen.  The  big 
price  on  the  head  of  his  friend  was,  no  doubt,  still 
offered,  and  that  was  inducement  for  extra  work. 
Mason  decided  that  he  would  lie  with  as  straight  a 
face  as  possible,  though  he  was  afraid  that  he  might 
become  tangled  in  his  statements;  the  detectives 
might  uncover  discrepancies  which  could  be  turned 
against  himself.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was 
in  a  "pickle,"  as  he  put  it,  and  he  was  both  angry  and 
alarmed.  Charles  had  never  alluded  during  their  long 
friendship  to  the  published  charges  against  him,  but 
somehow  Mason  had  come  to  believe  that  his  friend 
was  not  guilty. 

The  stranger,  with  what  looked  like  an  absolutely 
timid  expression  of  face  and  mien,  was  coming  toward 
him.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  brazen  it 
out,  and  Mason  braced  himself  for  the  most  difficult 
ordeal  of  his  life.  The  man  stopped  in  front  of 
him,  bent  forward,  and  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
your  face  is  somewhat  familiar,  and  I  was  wondering 
if  we  have  ever  met  before.  I  am  a  stranger  in  the 
city,  sir,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  I  saw  you  a  year 
ago  here  in  New  York." 

"It  may  be,"  Mason  answered,  conscious  that  he 
must  make  as  few  admissions  as  possible  and  yet 
not  appear  to  be  keeping  back  anything.  Suddenly 
his  line  of  procedure  became  clear  to  him.  He  would 
simply  say  to  this  man,  and  his  associates,  that  he 
had  not  seen  Charles  for  more  than  a  year.  How 
could  they  prove  otherwise,  for  if  they  had  known 

229 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Charles  to  be  with  the  circus  they  would  have  taken 
him?  That  point  was  clear  and  Mason  now  felt 
more  confident.  He  found  that  he  could  calmly 
return  the  stranger's  bland  stare.  In  fact,  he  began 
to  study  the  fellow.  He  fancied  he  knew  the  exact 
spot  under  the  man's  lapel  where  his  metal  badge 
was  concealed. 

"It  was  in  the  crowd  at  Madison  Square  where  I 
saw  you,"  the  stranger  went  on,  as  if  eager  to  remind 
Mason  of  the  fact.  "You  were  listening  to  the 
speakers." 

"Yes,  I  remember  going  there,"  Mason  said,  taking 
out  a  box  of  cigarettes.  "Do  you  happen  to  have  a 
match  about  you?" 

The  man  fished  one  from  a  vest  pocket  with 
fingers  which  seemed  to  quiver  slightly,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  the  look  of  suspended  excite 
ment  in  his  mild  eyes.  Mason  decided  that  he 
would  not  offer  him  a  cigarette.  "I  think  I  recall 
seeing  you  there,"  he  remarked.  "In  fact,  as  you 
passed  me  just  now  your  face  seemed  familiar.  You 
say  you  are  a  stranger  in  the  city?" 

"Yes,  I  only  come  here  once  in  a  while." 

Silence  fell.  A  lame  Italian  was  playing  a  wheezy 
hand-organ  at  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  a  group  of 
ill-clad  children  were  dancing  near  by.  Charles 
wondered  what  his  companion  would  do  if  he  sud 
denly  got  up  and  left.  Would  he  then  declare  himself 
in  his  official  capacity,  or  dog  his  steps  as  formerly  ? 
Mason  somehow  wanted  the  thing  settled  for  good 
and  all.  How  could  he  sleep  or  have  any  peace  of 
mind  with  an  uncertainty  like  that  hanging  over 
him? 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  think  I  may  venture  to  be  plain  with  you, 
sir,"  the  stranger  broke  the  silence  to  say.  "The 
day  I  saw  you  you  were  in  the  company  of  a — a 
young  man  that  I  desire  very  much  to  meet." 

"Oh,  let  me  see,"  and  Mason  deliberately  flicked 
the  ash  from  his  cigarette.  "Who  was  I  with  that 
day?  I  ran  with  several  chaps  about  that  time." 

The  stranger  described  Charles  accurately,  and 
all  but  held  his  breath  as  he  waited. 

"Oh,  that  fellow!"  Mason  exclaimed,  carelessly. 
"He  was  a  stranger  to  me.  I  met  him  by  accident 
at  the  house  I  roomed  at.  So  you  want  to  meet 
him?" 

"Yes,  very  much.    He  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"I  see,"  Mason  answered.  "Well,  I'm  sorry  I 
can't  help  you  find  him.  He  and  I  parted  about  that 
time  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  I'm  rather 
sorry,  too,  for  I  found  him  a  rather  agreeable  chap." 

"So  you  don't  know  where  he  is?"  The  stranger's 
face  fell,  and  a  shadow  of  absolute  gloom  seemed  to 
come  into  his  earnest  eyes.  "When  I  saw  you  just 
now,  sir,  I  hoped  that  you  might  put  me  on  the 
track  of  him." 

"He  dies  hard,"  Mason  mused,  now  more  at  his 
ease.  "No,  I  can't  help  you,"  he  said,  aloud.  "If 
I  remember  rightly  he  said  something  about  working 
his  way  to  England  on  a  cattle-ship." 

"England?  My  God!  then  I'll  not  find  him  at 
all!"  the  stranger  sighed. 

"It  would  be  a  difficult  job,'*  Mason  went  on, 

with  real  pleasure  in  the  tale  he  was  concocting. 

Then  suddenly  he  was  emboldened  to  pursue  different 

tactics.    "Say,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  are  the  man  I 

16  231 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

saw  hanging  about  our  house  the  night  after  I 
noticed  you  in  Madison  Square.  Am  I  right?" 

Something  like  a  sigh  escaped  the  lips  of  the 
stranger.  Surely,  if  he  was  a  detective,  he  was  either 
a  poor  one  or  a  most  accomplished  actor.  Mason 
suddenly  decided  that  he  was  dealing  with  the  latter 
when  his  companion  answered: 

"Yes,  I  followed  you  both  to  that  house,  sir.  I 
wanted  a  word  with  my  friend.  I  tried  to  catch  his 
eye  in  the  crowd  at  Madison  Square,  but  failed." 

"But  if  you  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  or  see  him, 
why  didn't  you  do  it  v/hile  he  was  with  me?"  Mason 
demanded,  with  no  little  pride  now  in  his  skill  at 
cross-examination,  and  a  growing  sense  of  his  own 
security. 

"There  were  reasons  why  I  should  not,"  was  the 
slow  answer.  "I  wanted  to  see  him  alone,  sir.  I 
watched  the  house  that  night  till — "  The  stranger 
paused  as  if  he  had  said  more  than  he  intended. 

"Till  I  came  out  and  made  you  run  -away?" 
Mason  smiled.  "I  didn't  intend  to  spoil  your  game, 
whatever  it  was." 

"I  came  back  and  watched  the  house  after  that," 
the  man  went  on,  dejectedly.  "I  saw  you  both  come 
out  with  your  things.  I  followed  you  up-town  and 
across  to  the  river.  I  saw  you  at  the  boat-house.  I 
didn't  know  you  intended  to  cross  over  till  your 
boat  had  started;  then  it  was  too  late.  You  see, 
sir,  I  am  pretty  sure  that  you  do  know  more  about 
my  friend  than  you  are  willing  to  tell.  I've  got  to 
know  more  about  him,  and  I'm  going  to  stick  to 
you  till  you  help  me  locate  him.  You  see,  I  don't 
believe  the  story  about  the  cattle-ship.  Men  don't 

232' 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

go  to  New  Jersey  in  a  small  boat  at  night  to  ship 
for  England.    Now,  do  they,  sir,  really?" 

"But  you  see,  it  was  after  we  got  across  that  he 
thought  of  England,"  Mason  added,  carelessly. 
"Come  on,  my  friend,  spit  it  out.  What  is  it  that 
you  have  up  your  sleeve,  anyway?" 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  the  stranger  answered,  regret 
fully,  "but  I  cannot  take  you  fully  into  my  confi 
dence.  You  see,  if  it  were  my  affair  alone  it  would 
be  different,  but,  as  it  is,  I  cannot  say  more." 

"Sly  dog,"  Mason  thought.  "I've  seen  a  few 
detectives  at  their  game,  but  I  never  knew  that 
any  of  them  ever  played  the  part  of  absolute  idiocy 
to  gain  a  point.  "Well,"  he  added,  aloud,  "we  may 
as  well  change  the  subject.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
how  gracefully  these  street  kids  dance?  Watch  that 
slim  girl  waltzing  with  the  tiny  tot.  Why,  she — 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  the  stranger  broke  in,  "but  I 
am  not  satisfied  about  what  you  have  told  me.  I 
don't  want  to  doubt  your  word,  sir,  but  this  is  a 
very  grave  matter.  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
for  a  year,  hoping  that  if  I  met  you  I'd  learn  some 
thing  about  my  young  friend.  You  yourself  make 
me  doubt  the  story  of  the  cattle-ship.  It  is  the  way 
you  tell  it,  I  suppose.  I  think,  sir,  that  we  are  play 
ing  at  cross-purposes.  I'm  sure,  sir,  that  my  young 
friend  must  have  placed  confidence  in  you.  He 
showed  that,  it  seems  to  me,  sir,  by  leaving  the  city 
with  you  as  he  did  that  night.  Nobody  but  two 
close  friends  would  act  as  you  did.  You  see,  I 
kept  you  in  sight  all  the  way  to  the  boat-house.  I 
crossed  over  myself  the  next  morning,  and  looked 
all  about  over  there,  but  saw  nothing  of  you." 

233 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mason  stood  up.  He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the 
man,  and  yet  he  was  irritated  by  his  persistence.  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  "I  must  be  going,"  he  said. 
"I  have  an  appointment  down-town." 

The  stranger  was  on  his  feet  also.  "Don't  leave 
me  like  this,  sir,"  he  implored.  "I  have  reasons  to 
believe  that  our  young  friend  would  be  glad  to  see 
me  if  he  could  safely  do  so.  Somehow  I  feel  that 
he  is  here  in  the  city  and  that  you  know  where  he 
is." 

"You  are  barking  up  the  wrong  tree,"  Mason 
said,  crisply.  ' '  I  know  nothing  more  than  I  have 
told  you." 

"But  I  have  caught  you  in  a  contradiction — 
about  the  cattle-ship  for  England,  you  see,"  and 
the  man  actually  grasped  Mason's  lapel  and  clung 
to  it  desperately.  "I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  Bos 
ton  without  some  favorable  news.  He  has  one  true 
friend  there  who  would  do  anything  to  get  news  of 
him — a  good  kind  lady  and  a  relation  of  his.  I 
haven't  much  money,  sir.  I  am  only  a  poor  servant 
with  a  sick  mother  to  support  out  of  my  earnings, 
but  if  you  will  give  me  some  helpful  information  I 
am  willing  to  pay  you." 

' '  Pay  me  ?  Come  off.  What  do  you  take  me  for  ?" 
Mason  drew  back  and  detached  his  lapel  from  the 
man's  clutch.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  know  your 
game?  Well,  I  do,  and  let  that  end  it.  Good  day." 

Turning  suddenly,  Mason  strode  off  toward 
Broadway.  "That  will  settle  him,  I  guess,"  he  mut 
tered,  "unless  he  calls  a  cop  to  take  me  in.  That 
was  mushy  sob-talk  he  was  giving  me.  I  guess  he 
thought  it  would  go  down,  but  it  didn't.  Good 

234 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Lord!  a  man  that  can  act  like  that  ought  to  be 
playing  Hamlet.  He  is  after  that  ten  thousand 
dollars  and  he  is  willing  to  work  for  it.  Good 
gracious!  he  no  doubt  knows  where  I  hang  out. 
Perhaps  he  dogged  my  steps  here  to-day  and  that 
startled  look  of  recognition  was  all  part  of  his  game. 
He  and  several  others  may  now  have  Mrs.  Reilly's 
house  under  watch.  Gee !  that  mountain  town  is  the 
place  for  poor  Brown,  after  all!"  He  had  reached 
the  edge  of  the  square  when,  happening  to  glance 
back,  he  saw  the  stranger  following  him.  "My 
Lord!  what  is  he  up  to  now?"  Mason  said,  under 
his  breath.  The  man  was  signaling  to  him  with 
his  handkerchief. 

"Wait,  sir!"  he  called  out.  "I  must  see  you  a 
moment." 

Mason  turned  back  into  the  walk  he  had  just  left, 
and  advanced  to  meet  the  man.  "I'll  have  it  out 
with  him  and  be  done  with  it,"  he  decided.  "I 
can't  stand  this.  I'd  as  soon  be  in  jail  myself.  If 
he  wants  to  take  me  to  the  police  I'll  go.  I'll  stick 
to  the  cattle-ship  yarn,  and  let  them  disprove  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  evening,  several  days  after  Charles's  trip 
with  Mary  to  the  hiding-place  of  the  two  boys, 
he  and  Rowland  sat  on  the  front  veranda.     It  was 
dusk  and  supper  was  almost  ready. 

"We  may  have  to  wait  a  little  while,"  the  old 
gentleman  explained,  in  his  languid  way.  "Mary 
is  looking  for  company,  I  understand,  and  he 
may  be  slow  getting  here.  He  is  sometimes,  for 
he  is  a  little  careless  about  such  things-^-more  care 
less,  I  know,  than  I  used  to  be  in  my  courting- 
days." 

With  a  sudden  depression  of  spirits  Charles  sur 
mised  that  the  expected  visitor  was  Albert  Frazier, 
and  he  made  no  comment.  Presently  Mary  came 
down  the  stairs.  She  had  changed  her  dress,  re 
arranged  her  hair,  and  looked  very  pretty  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  glanced  down  the  road 
toward  Carlin. 

"You  and  Mr.  Brown  need  not  wait,  father," 
she  said.  "You  know  how  slow  Albert  is.  I'm  sure 
Mr.  Brown  is  both  hungry  and  tired.  He  has 
finished  the  cotton  and  started  on  the  corn.  Albert 
and  I  can  eat  later.  I  want  to  get  news  from  Tobe 
Keith.  Albert  promised  to  go  by  his  house  before 
starting  out." 

236' 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  am  not  at  all  hungry,"  Charles  declared,  as 
Mary  disappeared  in  the  parlor. 

"Well,  I  am,"  Rowland  said,  "and  I  shall  not 
wait  longer  for  Frazier,  or  any  one  else.  I  have 
some  notes  to  make  after  supper,  and  this  delay 
is  upsetting  me.  Come,  let's  go  in  and  leave  the 
two  sweethearts  to  eat  and  coo  together.  They 
won't  eat  much,  I  reckon.  By  the  way,  in  my  gene 
alogical  research  I  find  that  there  are  many  family 
names  of  French  origin  in  our  mountains.  This 
Frazier — 'Frazyea'  would  be  the  French  pronuncia 
tion — may  have  had  fine  old  Huguenot  ancestors 
away  back  in  the  early  settlement  of  South  Caro 
lina.  He  has  his  good  points.  He  is  not  exactly  the 
stamp  of  man  I  would  have  wanted  my  daughter 
to  marry  in  the  old  days,  you  know,  but  things  are 
frightfully  changed.  The  financial  shoe  is  on  the 
other  foot,  you  see,  and  it  is  money  that  founds 
families." 

Their  supper  was  soon  ended,  and  on  their  return 
to  the  veranda  they  found  Mary  still  watching  the 
road.  "I  see  him,  I  think,"  she  announced,  wearily. 
"It  looks  like  a  man  with  a  broad-brimmed  hat  on. 
Yes,  that  is  Albert." 

The  rider  drew  in  at  the  gate  and  dismounted, 
leading  his  horse  into  the  yard  and  up  to  the  steps. 
"You  must  excuse  me,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  make  it  earlier  and  get  the  news  you 
wanted.  The  doctor  was  making  an  examination 
and  was  delayed.  Tobe  fainted  several  times.  He 
is  weak,  the  doctor  says  tell  you,  but  there  is  still 
hope."  Here  catching  sight  of  Charles,  he  continued, 
gruffly:  "Say,  fellow,  put  up  my  horse.  And,  say, 

237 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

give  him  a  pail  of  water  from  the  well  and  some 
shelled  corn  and  a  bundle  of  fodder." 

Starting  in  surprise,  Charles  was  about  to  thunder 
out  a  furious  reply;  to  save  himself  from  such  a 
display  of  temper  in  the  presence  of  a  lady  he  simply 
turned  back  into  the  sitting-room. 

"Did  he  hear  me?"  he  heard  Frazier  asking  his 
host,  in  a  rising  tone  of  anger. 

"He  was  not  hired  for  that  sort  of  work,  Albert," 
the  old  man  said,  pacifically.  "He  has  been  in  the 
field  ever  since  sunup.  Zilla  takes  care  of  our  own 
stock.  Come,  I'll  go  with  you  and  show  you  the 
stall  and  the  feed." 

Frazier  swore  aloud  and  muttered  something  about 
"tramp  farm-hands"  which  Charles  could  not  catch; 
then  he  and  Rowland  led  the  horse  to  the  stable. 
Charles  was  standing  in  the  center  of  the  room  when 
Mary  came  in.  She  walked  straight  up  to  him  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  let  that  bother  you;  please  don't!"  she 
urged,  excitedly.  "I  don't  want  you  to  have  trouble 
with  him.  He  is  a  dangerous  sort  of  man.  If  he 
takes  a  dislike  to  you  he  will  do  his  best  to  injure 
you,  and  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  do  all  sorts  of 
things,  along  with  his  brother  as  an  officer  of  the  law." 

' '  I  understand.  I  have  already  heard  a  few  things 
he  has  said  about  me,"  Charles  replied,  still  furious, 
and  yet  trying  to  calm  himself.  "I  know  the  kind 
of  man  he  is  exactly.  But  you  are  in  trouble,  and 
I  shall  not  worry  you  in  the  matter.  If  he  insults 
me  again  I'll  try  to  overlook  it — I  will  overlook  it." 

"Thank  you,"  Mary  said,  gently  and  sweetly, 
in  a  voice  which  quivered  with  curbed  emotion, 

238 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"but  he  mustn't  do  it  again.  I  must  talk  to  him. 
He  has  no  right  to  come  here  giving  orders  like  that 
to  people  who  have  been  as  kind  and  unselfish  as 
you  have  been.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do, 
Mr.  Brown!  When  he  was  telling  about  how  weak 
Tobe  Keith  was  my  very  soul  seemed  to  die  in  my 
body." 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted  by  an  oil-lamp  on  a 
table  in  the  center  of  the  room.  She  stood  facing 
him,  her  wondrous  eyes  filling  with  tears  of  anxiety, 
her  lips  twitching,  her  brows  knitted,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  snowy  apron. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  comfort  you,"  said 
Charles.  His  voice  shook  and  he  tried  to  steady  it. 
"I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  sinking  so  low  as  to 
be  angry  with  that  man  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
You  are  stretched  on  the  rack,  Miss  Rowland,  and 
you  are  being  tortured.  I  wish  I  could  take  your 
place — as  God  is  my  judge,  I  do!  I  can't  bear  the 
sight  of  it.  It  is  unfair,  hellish,  satanic!  It  must 
not  go  on  like  this." 

"I  want  you  to — to  think  well  of  me,"  Mary 
said,  haltingly,  "and  I  believe  you  will.  You  must 
not  think  me  shallow  if  I  appear  to  be  light-hearted 
to-night  with  Mr.  Frazier.  You  see,  everything 
depends  on  him  now.  He  knows  where  the  boys 
are,  and  if  I  were  to  anger  him  or  rouse  his  sus 
picions  in  any  way  he  would  turn  against  us.  I  am 
sorry  he  is  like  that,  but  he  is.  I  see  now  that  I 
made  a  mistake  in  allowing  him  to  pay  such  con 
stant  attention  to  me,  but  I  am  only  a  weak  girl 
and  couldn't  help  it.  You  see,  at  first  he  offered  to 
take  me  to  places,  parties,  picnics,  and  I  wanted  to 

239 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

go,  as  any  girl  would  in  my  place,  and  that  is  the 
way  it  began.  Then  he  became  dictatorial  and 
jealous,  and  so  it  went  on  till — well,  you  see  how  it 
now  is.  My  father  is  indebted  to  him  and  so  am  I 
now." 

"Surely  you  haven't  obligated  yourself — "  stam 
mered  Charles. 

"Not  in  so  many  words,"  Mary  broke  in,  "but 
it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  He  wants  me  to  let 
him  furnish  the  money  to  pay  Tobe  Keith's  ex 
penses  to  Atlanta,  and  I  see  no  other  way  than  to 
accept  his  offer.  If  it  goes  that  far,  I  shall  consent 
to  be  his  wife.  If  he  saves  my  brothers  from  the 
scaffold  I'll  be  his  slave  for  life.  Love?  I  don't  ex 
pect  love.  What  he  feels  for  me  is  not  love,  and  what 
I  would  be  giving  would  not  be,  either.  Love  is  a 
dreamlike  thing,  more  of  the  soul  than  the  body." 

"I  know  what  love  is  now,"  Charles  thought.  "I 
never  knew  before,  but  I  do  now." 

The  steps  of  the  two  men  were  heard  coming 
from  the  barn,  and  Mary  went  hastily  out  of  the 
lamplight  and  into  the  gloom  of  the  hall. 

"Our  supper  is  ready,  Albert,"  Charles  heard  her 
say.  "Come  on  before  it  is  cold." 

Passing  through  the  dining-room,  Charles  man 
aged  to  reach  the  yard  by  means  of  a  side  door 
without  having  to  meet  Frazier.  He  found  him 
self  standing  among  some  fig-trees  and  grape 
vines  in  the  dewy  grass,  surrounded  by  what  had 
been  beds  of  flowers  in  the  day  when  the  place  had 
been  well  kept.  An  unshaded  window  of  the  dining- 
room  was  before  him,  and  through  it  Charles  saw 
Frazier  and  Mary  approaching  the  table.  The 

240 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

man's  arm  was  actually  about  the  girl's  waist,  his 
coarse  lips  were  close  to  her  pale  cheek.  He  was 
smiling  broadly,  and  laughing  as  if  over  some  jest 
of  his  own  making.  Charles  would  have  withdrawn 
his  eyes,  but  he  was  held  as  if  spellbound  by  the 
tragedy  which  was  being  enacted,  with  him  as  the 
sole  spectator.  Charles  noted  that  Frazier  sank 
heavily  into  a  chair  without  first  seeing  that  Mary 
was  seated.  He  saw  him  take  a  cigar  damp  with 
saliva  from  the  corner  of  his  great  mouth  and  place 
it  on  a  plate  at  his  side.  He  saw  him  reach  out  and 
take  Mary's  hand  and  fondle  it  patronizingly  as 
he  continued  to  talk.  Even  in  the  dim  lamplight 
Charles  read  in  the  girl's  face  the  growing  desire 
to  resent  the  fellow's  coarse  familiarity. 

Charles  uttered  a  groan  and  turned  away.  Off 
toward  the  barn  he  wandered,  finding  himself  pres 
ently  at  the  blacksmith's  shop.  The  wide  sliding- 
door  was  open,  and  for  no  reason  of  which  he  was 
conscious  he  went  into  the  dark  room  and  sat  on 
the  anvil.  Money  was  now  the  thing  he  wanted 
above  all  else  in  the  world.  If  only  he  could  anony 
mously  send  to  the  suffering  girl  the  funds  needed 
for  Keith's  treatment,  how  glorious  it  would  be! 
So  small  a  thing  and  yet  it  might  free  the  girl 
from  a  union  that  would  be  a  lifelong  outrage  against 
her  sensitive  spirit.  Only  four  hundred  dollars! 
He  remembered  having  spent  more  than  that 
in  a  single  night  at  a  card-table — more  than  that 
on  a  drunken  trip  to  Atlantic  City  in  the  company 
of  reckless  associates.  Obtaining  the  money,  how 
ever,  was  out  of  the  question.  He  might  get  it 
from  William,  but  he  had  pledged  his  honor  never 

241 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  enter  his  brother's  life  again;  besides,  the  time 
was  too  short.  The  window  of  the  dining-room 
gleamed  in  a  sheen  of  light  through  the  boughs  of 
the  trees  about  the  house.  He  fancied  he  saw  the 
pair  again,  and  the  thought  maddened  him.  Marry 
that  man!  Could  she  possibly  work  herself  up  to 
the  ordeal?  Yes,  for  she  was  simply  ready  to  sacri 
fice  herself,  and  Charles  knew  from  experience  what 
self-sacrifice  was  like.  He  groaned  as  he  left  the  shop 
and  went  toward  the  barn.  The  dense  wood  beyond 
it,  lying  under  the  mystic  light  of  the  rising  moon, 
lured  him  into  its  bosom,  and  he  decided  that  he 
would  walk  there,  for  no  reason  than  that  he  hoped 
in  that  way  to  throw  off  the  gnawing  agony  which 
lay  upon  him. 

He  had  climbed  over  the  fence  and  was  about  to 
plunge  into  the  thicket  when  he  heard  a  low,  guarded 
whistle.  He  recognized  it  as  the  one  Kenneth  had 
used  in  response  to  his  own  as  he  approached  the 
secret  hiding-place.  In  a  low  whistle  he  answered 
and  stood  still. 

"It's  him!"  He  now  recognized  Kenneth's  voice. 
"I  knew  him  as  he  got  over  the  fence.  Come  on, 
stupid!  It's  all  right!" 

"Yes,  it  is  all  right.  I'm  alone,"  Charles  said 
softly. 

"Come  here  to  us,  then,"  Kenneth  proposed. 
"The  bushes  are  thicker." 

Charles  obeyed,  and  soon  stood  facing  the  two 
bedraggled  boys. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked,  aghast  over 
the  risk  they  were  running. 

"It  means  that  we've  made  up  our  minds  to 

242 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

hide  closer  to  home,"  Kenneth  half -sheepishly  ex 
plained.  "Nobody's  looking  for  us  here  in  the 
mountains;  you  said  so  yourself.  Sister  said  Albert 
Frazier  was  keeping  the  sheriff  off  the  track.  We 
don't  like  it  out  there,  and — " 

"How  is  Tobe  Keith?"  Martin's  tremulous  voice 
broke  in.  ' '  What  is  the  use  of  so  much  chatter  about 
smaller  things?  How  is  he?" 

"The  doctors  say  there  has  been  no  vital  change," 
Charles  informed  the  quaking  boy. 

"No  change?  My  God!  when  will  there  be  a 
change?"  Martin  groaned.  He  was  covering  his 
pale  face  with  his  hands,  when  Kenneth  roughly 
swept  them  down. 

"Don't  be  a  baby,  silly!"  he  snarled.  "Blub 
bering  won't  undo  the  matter.  If  he  dies,  he  dies, 
and  we  can't  help  it."  Kenneth  forced  a  wry  smile 
which  on  his  soiled,  bloodless  face  was  more  like  a 
grimace  in  the  white  moonlight.  "Martin  behaves 
like  that  all  the  time,  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
That  is  one  reason  I  decided  to  come  nearer  home. 
He  needs  sister  to  cheer  him  up  and  pet  him.  I 
don't  know  how.  Then  our  cave  is  damp  and  chilly. 
I'm  afraid  he  will  get  sick.  He  don't  eat  enough. 
I  get  away  with  most  of  the  grub.  Here  is  my  plan, 
Brown.  You  are  a  good  chap,  and  a  friend,  too. 
We  may  as  well  sleep  in  the  hay  in  the  loft  of  the 
barn.  We'd  have  nothing  to  fear  in  the  night,  and 
through  the  day,  with  all  of  the  family  to  keep  a 
lookout  up  and  down  the  road,  we  could  get  away 
even  if  the  sheriff  did  come." 

Charles  informed  him  of  Albert  Frazier's  presence 
in  the  house  and  that  he  might  remain  over 

243 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

night.  At  this  the  two  boys  exchanged  dubious 
glances. 

"Well,"  Kenneth  opined,  slowly,  "I  am  sure  he 
can  be  trusted  in  the  main.  As  long  as  he  and  sister 
understand  each  other  he  will  be  on  our  side.  He 
has  stood  behind  the  old  man  often  in  raising  money ; 
though,  take  it  from  me,  Brown,  Albert  is  not  made  of 
money.  He  owes  a  lot  here  and  there  and  has  to 
be  dunned  frequently  even  for  small  amounts.  In 
her  last  note  sister  said  that  he  would  raise  the 
money  to  send  Keith  to  Atlanta.  He  can  get  it,  I 
guess,  by  some  hook  or  crook." 

"Sister  mustn't  let  him  furnish  the  money,"  Mar 
tin  faltered,  his  voice  raising  in  uncertainty  and  end 
ing  in  firmness. 

"Mustn't?  What  do  you  mean,  silly?"  and  Ken 
neth  turned  on  him  impatiently. 

"Because  she  doesn't  want  to  accept  it  from  him, 
that's  why,"  Martin  stated,  almost  angrily.  "She 
doesn't  want  to  bind  herself  to  him  like  that.  I 
know  how  she  feels  about  that  fellow.  She  was  just 
amusing  herself  with  him  and  was  ready  to  break  off 
when  this  awful  thing  came  up.  If  she  takes  the 
money  and  binds  herself  we'll  be  responsible,  for  if 
we  hadn't  been  drunk  that  night  at  Carlin — " 

"Oh,  dry  up!  dry  up!  you  sniffling  chump!"  Ken 
neth  retorted.  "We  are  in  a  hole,  and  we  have  got 
to  get  out  the  best  we  can." 

"She  mustn't  take  the  money  from  him,"  re 
iterated  the  younger  boy,  turning  his  twisting  face 
aside.  "If  she  takes  it  she  will  marry  him,  and  she 
is  no  wife  for  that  dirty,  low-bred  scoundrel.  You 
and  I  know  all  about  the  girls  he  has  ruined.  Didn't 

244 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Jeff  Raymond  come  all  the  way  from  Camden 
County  to  shoot  him  like  a  dog  for  the  way  he  treated 
his  niece,  and  then  the  sheriff  stepped  in  and 
smoothed  it  over?  Pouf !  do  you  think  I  want  my 
sweet,  beautiful  sister  to  marry  a  man  like  that  to 
save  my  neck?  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Mr.  Brown, 
if  she  starts  to  do  that  for  my  sake  I'll  drown  myself. 
She  is  an  angel.  She  has  had  enough  trouble  from 
me  and  Ken.  We  have  treated  her  worse  than  a 
nigger  slave  ever  was  treated." 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  let  up!"  thundered  Kenneth. 
' '  This  is  no  camp-meeting.  If  sis  wants  to  take  the 
money,  let  her  do  it.  Now,  Brown,  I'm  willing  to 
trust  Albert  Frazier  to  some  extent,  but  he  need 
not  know  just  yet  that  we  are  bunking  in  the  barn. 
Let  him  keep  on  thinking  we  are  at  the  other  place. 
Tell  the  others  about  it,  though.  We've  had  enough 
to  eat  to-night,  but  please  have  Aunt  Zilla  get  us 
up  a  warm  breakfast  in  the  morning.  It  will  tickle 
the  old  soul  and  she  will  spread  herself.  You  see, 
I'm  in  a  better  mood  than  Martin  is.  I  don't  cross 
a  bridge  till  I  get  to  it,  but  he  has  attended  Keith's 
funeral  a  hundred  times  in  a  single  night,  and  as 
for  the  other" — Kenneth  uttered  a  short,  hoarse 
laugh  and  made  a  motion  as  if  tying  a  rope  around 
his  neck — "he  has  been  through  that  quite  as  often. 
That  boy  is  full  of  imagination.  Mother  used  to  say 
he  would  write  poems  or  paint  pictures.  He  has 
'painted  towns  red*  with  me  often  enough,  the  Lord 
knows.  Some  say  I  am  ruining  him.  I  don't  know. 
I  don't  care.  If  a  fellow  is  weak  enough  to  be 
twisted  by  another — well,  he  deserves  to  be  twisted, 
that's  all." 

245 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  don't  blame  anybody  but  myself,"  Martin 
whispered  from  a  full,  almost  gurgling  throat.  "I 
know  I  never  let  sister  twist  me,  and  I  ought  to 
have  done  so.  A  man  is  a  low  cur  that  will  bring 
his  sister  down  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  that's 
what  I  am.  But  she  shall  not  marry  Frazier  if  I 
can  help  it.  The  trouble  is,  I  can't  help  it!"  he 
ended,  with  a  groan.  "By  my  own  conduct  I  have 
sealed  her  fate  and  mine.  If  our  gentle  mother 
were — " 

Kenneth  abruptly  turned  his  back  on  his  brother. 
"Come  on,"  he  said  to  Charles,  with  a  frown  of 
displeasure,  "  let's  go  to  the  barn  and  put  the  baby 
to  bed  in  the  hay.  Then  you  may  go  tell  sister,  if 
you  will  be  so  kind." 


CHAPTER  XV 

\\  THEN  they  had  disappeared  in  the  barn, 
V  V  Charles,  for  precautionary  reasons,  skirted 
the  stable  lot,  plunged  into  the  thicket  at  the  side 
of  the  house,  and  entered  the  yard  at  the  front  gate. 
The  parlor  was  lighted,  and  he  knew  that  Mary  was 
there,  entertaining  her  visitor.  He  tried  to  walk 
noiselessly,  but  his  tread  made  a  low  grinding  sound 
on  the  gravel,  and  the  broken  steps  creaked  as  he 
ascended  them.  To  his  consternation  he  heard 
Mary  coming.  She  stood  in  the  front  doorway, 
staring  in  agitation. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  out,  in  relief,  when  her  glance 
fell  on  him.  "I  thought — thought  that  you  might 
be  a  messenger  from  town.  Mrs.  Quinby  said  she 
would  send  word  if  a  dangerous  change  came." 

"I  must  see  you  about  your  brothers — "  he  was 
beginning,  when  they  heard  Frazier's  heavy  tread 
in  their  direction. 

In  a  flash  of  comprehension  she  acted.  Stepping 
close  to  him,  she  whispered,  softly,  "After  he  goes 
up  to  bed — meet  me  under  the  apple-trees  out  there !" 

She  stepped  back  to  the  doorway  just  as  Frazier 
was  emerging  from  the  parlor.     "Yes,  I  thought  it 
was  a  messenger  from  town,"  she  said,  aloud.  ' '  Good 
night,  Mr.  Brown." 
17  247 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

"Good  night,"  Charles  answered,  and  he  passed 
on  to  the  stairway  and  went  up  to  his  room.  He 
heard  the  voices  of  Mary  and  Frazier  on  the  veranda. 
They  were  walking  to  and  fro,  for  he  could  hear 
their  steps  side  by  side. 

Charles  did  not  undress.  He  did  not  light  his 
lamp,  but  sat  waiting.  There  was  a  certain  unde- 
finable  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  serv 
ing  Mary,  that  she  had  made  the  appointment  to 
meet  him  later.  At  all  events,  her  uncouth  suitor 
did  not  have  her  full  confidence.  But  how  slowly 
the  time  dragged  along,  how  irritating  the  thought 
that  the  girl  was  tortured  by  suspense  over  his  in 
terrupted  disclosure! 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  heard  Mary  saying 
good  night  and  Frazier  went  clattering  up  the  stairs. 
He  carried  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand,  and  Charles, 
peering  from  his  darkened  coign  of  vantage  through 
the  half -opened  door,  beheld  the  sensual  visage  in  a 
circle  of  light.  How  he  detested  it !  Frazier  turned 
into  the  guest-room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the 
windows  of  which  overlooked  the  lawn  in  front  of 
the  house.  The  door  was  closed  after  him.  Charles 
heard  the  key  turned  and  the  bolt  rattle  into  its 
socket.  Frazier  was  evidently  a  cautious  man  even 
in  the  house  of  friends,  and  it  was  known  that  he 
had  enemies  who  would  not  hesitate  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  him.  He  always  carried  a  revolver.  He 
was  permitted  to  do  so  by  the  law  as  an  occasional 
deputy  under  his  brother. 

Frazier  continued  his  noise.  He  made  a  clatter 
as  he  doffed  his  heavy  boots.  A  rickety  old  chair 
creaked  under  him  as  he  sat  in  it.  Charles  heard 

248 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

even  his  dull  tread  as  he  thumped  about  in  his  bare 
feet,  removing  his  outer  clothing.  A  window-sash 
was  thrown  up  with  a  jarring  bang.  Then  the 
groaning  of  the  mahogany  bedstead  announced  that 
he  had  retired  for  the  night. 

Charles  went  to  a  window  and  looked  out.  He 
could  see  the  apple-trees  Mary  had  indicated,  and 
he  was  glad  that  they  were  not  in  view  of  the  win 
dows  of  Frazier's  room.  He  waited,  wondering  if 
the  visitor  were  a  quick  and  sound  sleeper.  He  took 
off  his  shoes  that  he  might  as  noiselessly  as  possible 
descend  the  stairs.  He  decided  that  he  must  go 
at  once;  it  would  be  discourteous  to  let  Mary  reach 
the  rendezvous  first.  So,  with  his  shoes  in  his  hand, 
he  started  down.  In  the  great,  empty  hall  the 
creaking  of  the  worn,  well-seasoned  steps  seemed  to 
ring  out  sharply  as  exploding  gun-caps.  After  each 
sound  he  paused,  waited,  and  listened  to  see  if 
Frazier  had  been  aroused.  All  was  still,  and  he 
moved  on.  Reaching  the  outer  door,  he  found  that 
Mary  had  left  it  unlocked.  He  was  soon  outside 
and  under  the  trees  at  the  side  of  the  house.  He 
could  see  the  window  of  Mary's  room.  It  was 
dark.  She  had  not  retired,  of  that  he  was  sure; 
like  himself,  she  must  be  waiting  somewhere 
in  the  dark.  The  moon  was  higher  now,  and 
its  pale,  star-aided  light  fell  over  the  fields  and 
mountains  and  the  long,  winding  road  to  the 
village. 

Presently  he  saw  Mary  coming.  She  wore  slip 
pers  and  was  very  swift  of  foot.  As  lightly  as  a 
wind-blown  wisp  of  smoke  she  flitted  across  the  grass 
toward  him. 

249 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Are  you  here,  Mr.  Brown?"  she  asked,  her 
voice  trilling  like  the  suppressed  warbling  of  a 
bird. 

"Yes,  Miss  Rowland,"  he  answered,  softly,  and 
he  advanced  toward  her. 

"Thank  God!"  she  ejaculated,  fervently.  "I  was 
afraid  you  would  not  be  able  to  get  down  past 
Albert's  room.  What  is  it  you  have  to  say?  Oh, 
I'm  crazy — crazy  to  hear!" 

He  told  her,  watching  her  face  closely.  She 
started,  narrowed  her  eyes  in  perplexity,  and  then, 
unconsciously,  put  both  of  her  hands  on .  his  arm 
and  held  it  as  she  might  have  that  of  a  long-tried 
and  trusted  friend. 

"Oh,  what  do  you  think?  What  do  you  think?" 
she  all  but  moaned.  "Will  it  be  safe?" 

She  had  lifted  her  sweet  face  close  to  his.  Her 
touch  on  his  arm  was  a  thing  never  to  be  forgotten. 
It  seemed  to  rivet  his  very  soul  to  hers. 

He  weighed  his  decision  deliberately.  "I  cannot 
really  see  that  they  are  in  much  more  danger," 
he  finally  got  out.  "It  is  a  fact,  as  Kenneth  says, 
that,  with  us  to  keep  watch  on  the  road,  we  could 
warn  them  of  any  approach  that  had  a  suspicious 
look.  After  all,  perhaps  the  very  last  place  the 
officers  would  think  of  searching  would  be  one  so  close 
at  home.  At  any  rate,  the  boys  want  to  be  near  you 
— Martin  especially." 

"My  poor  baby!"  Mary  suddenly  broke  down  and 
began  to  weep. 

"Don't,  don't!  Please  don't!"  Charles  put  his 
arm  around  her;  he  drew  her  to  him.  He  wiped 
her  eyes  with  his  own  handkerchief;  his  toil-hardened 

250 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

fingers  touched  the  velvety  skin  of  her  cheeks.  She 
did  not  resent  his  action. 

"He  is  just  a  baby!"  she  sobbed;  "he  is  as  gentle 
and  timid  at  times  as  a  little  girl.  I  must  see  him 
to-night." 

"To-night!"  Charles  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  and  she  drew  herself  from  his  embrace 
as  if  unconscious  of  having  yielded  to  it,  though  her 
tear-wet  face  was  still  raised  to  his,  the  tremulous, 
grief-twisted  lips  never  before  so  maddeningly  ex 
quisite.  "Yes,  I  must  see  him  to-night.  I'll  go 
alone.  I  can  whistle  and  they  will  know  who  it  is. 
Kensy  may  be  asleep — he  no  doubt  is — but  Martin 
will  be  awake,  poor  boy!" 

"May  I  not  go  with  you  to — "  he  began,  hesitat 
ingly. 

"No,  I'd  better  go  alone.  You  see,  if  I  happened 
to  be  discovered  I  could  make  some  excuse,  but  it 
would  be  different  if  we  were  seen  together.  Don't 
wait  for  me.  Please  go  back  to  your  room.  You  are 
tired.  We  are  making  you  do  both  night  and  day 
work,  but,  oh,  I  am  so  grateful!  Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  he  echoed,  as  she  flitted  away  from 
him  like  a  vanishing  sprite  produced  by  the  moon 
and  starlight. 

At  the  steps  he  took  off  his  shoes  again.  No  ex 
perienced  housebreaker  could  have  turned  the  bolt 
of  the  great  door  more  softly  than  he  did,  and  yet 
an  accident  happened.  The  large  brass  key,  which 
was  loose  in  the  worn  keyhole,  fell  to  the  floor 
just  as  he  was  opening  the  door.  In  the  empty  hall 
it  sounded  to  him  as  loud  as  a  clap  of  thunder.  He 
stood  still,  holding  the  door  ajar  for  a  moment,  and 

251 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

then  softly  closed  it.  Cautiously  he  crept  up  the 
steps,  and  was  half-way  to  the  floor  above  when 
a  harsh  command  from  Frazier's  door  rang  out, 
followed  by  the  sharp  click  of  the  hammer  of  a 
revolver. 

"Halt!"  cried  Frazier.  "Stand  where  you  are, 
and  hold  up  your  hands.  If  you  value  your  life, 
don't  move." 

Charles  stood  still,  but  did  not  raise  his  hands. 
"I'm  going  up  to  my  room,"  he  said,  calmly.  He 
now  saw  Frazier  in  his  white  underclothing,  leaning 
over  the  balustrade,  the  revolver  aimed  at  him. 

"To  your  room,  with  your  shoes  in  your  hand?" 
was  the  incredulous  retort.  The  revolver  was  low 
ered  reluctantly  and  Frazier  swore  in  his  throat. 
"Is  that  the  way  you  come  and  go  in  the  house  of 
decent  people?"  he  went  on,  insultingly. 

Beside  himself  with  rage,  Charles  silently  pur 
sued  his  way  up  the  stairs.  Frazier  seemed  sur 
prised  at  receiving  no  answer,  and,  with  the  weapon 
swinging  at  his  side,  he  muttered  something  under 
his  breath  and  retreated  to  his  room  door. 

"I'll  look  into  this,"  he  called  out.  "I'm  sure  Mr. 
Rowland  doesn't  know  this  sort  of  a  thing  is  going 
on  under  his  roof." 

In  a  flash  of  far-reaching  insight  Charles  saw  the 
disastrous  consequences  of  a  nocturnal  row  with  the 
bully.  Mary  was  then  outside  the  house,  and  if 
Frazier  were  to  catch  her  returning  no  sort  of  ex 
planation  except  the  truth  would  satisfy  him.  What 
was  to  be  done?  In  an  instant  Charles  took  the 
only  available  course,  crushing  his  pride  to  accom 
plish  it. 

252 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  am  sorry  I  disturbed  you,  Mr.  Frazier,"  he 
said  to  the  white  figure  in  the  doorway.  "I  took  off 
my  shoes  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible.  I  am 
sorry,  too,  that  I  have  forgotten  something  and 
must  go  back  after  it.  I'll  try  not  to  disturb  you 
when  I  return." 

With  a  low  growl,  Frazier  vanished  in  his  room. 
Charles  heard  him  drop  the  revolver  on  a  table  and 
the  creaking  of  the  bed  as  he  sank  on  it.  Down  the 
stairs  Charles  went.  Slipping  on  his  shoes  outside, 
he  crept  around  the  house  toward  the  barn,  over 
joyed  by  the  discovery  that  Mary  was  not  yet  in 
sight.  At  the  barn-yard  fence  he  paused.  He  could 
hear  low  voices  from  the  dark  loft;  now  it  was 
Mary  speaking,  now  Martin,  now  Kenneth.  Charles 
crept  to  the  main  door  and  softly  whistled.  Imme 
diately  there  was  silence  within  the  building.  Then 
a  whistle  sounded.  It  was  Mary's,  he  was  sure,  and  he 
heard  her  descending  the  narrow  steps  from  the  loft. 

Frightened  she  must  have  been,  for  when  she 
reached  him  she  was  all  aquiver  and  her  voice  hung 
dead  in  her  throat. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  promptly,  to  allay  her 
fears.  "All  is  safe,  but  I  had  to  warn  you." 

Kenneth  and  Martin  were  now  at  her  side,  and 
he  explained  the  situation  to  them  all.  "I  was  afraid 
you  might  come  in  at  the  front  door  and  be  seen  by 
him,"  Charles  said.  "You  see,  he  may  not  go  to 
sleep  easily,  and — " 

"I  was  going  in  that  way,"  Mary  broke  in.  "He 
would  have  caught  me,  and  I  would  have  had  to 
tell  the  truth.  He  mustn't  know  the  boys  are  here. 
The  truth  is,  I  am  a  little  bit  more  afraid  of  him  than 

253 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  was.  He — he  holds  everything  over  me  that  he 
finds  out.  He  talks  about  our  marrying  more  than 
he  did.  I  can  get  in  by  the  back  stairs,  and  I'll  go 
up  very  soon.  Don't  wait,  Mr.  Brown.  He  is  sure 
to  lie  awake  till  you  return.  Lock  the  door  after 
you.  Don't  remove  your  shoes  this  time.  Show 
him  that  you  don't  care  what  he  thinks." 

Charles  found  the  way  clear  for  him  on  his  re 
turn,  and  as  he  passed  Frazier's  room  he  noticed 
that  the  door  was  closed;  he  heard  no  sounds  within. 

"Show  him  that  you  don't  care  what  he  thinks!" 
Mary's  last  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears.  Some 
how  they  were  the  sweetest  words  he  had  ever  heard. 
They  warmed,  thrilled,  encouraged  him.  He  took 
them  to  sleep  with  him.  They  followed  him  through 
strange  turbulent  dreams  that  night.  They  were 
back  of  his  first  waking  thoughts  the  next  morning. 
"Show  him  that  you  don't  care  what  he  thinks!"  He 
could  have  sung  the  words  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  rising  sunlight  as  it  bathed  the  fields  in  yellow. 
With  them  she  had  thanked  him  for  the  service  he 
had  rendered,  and  the  service  had  been  her  protection 
against  that  particular  individual.  Marry  him? 
Could  she  marry  a  man  she  feared?  And  yet  she 
had  said  she  would  under  certain  conditions,  and 
the  conditions  were  on  the  way  to  fulfilment.  Great 
God!  how  could  it  be?  His  short-lived  hope  was 
gone ;  the  music  of  her  magic  words  had  ceased.  He 
heard  the  clatter  of  Frazier's  boots  in  his  bed 
chamber.  As  he  passed  down  the  steps,  he  heard  the 
burly  guest  emptying  soiled  water  from  his  wash 
bowl  out  of  a  window  upon  the  shrubbery  below. 
How  he  hated  the  man ! 

254 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AFEVvf  days  later  Mary  left  on  horseback  im 
mediately  after  breakfast.  From  Rowland, 
Charles  learned  that  she  was  going  to  see  certain 
persons  who  owned  near-by  farms,  with  the  hope 
of  borrowing  money  for  the  removal  of  the  wounded 
man  to  Atlanta  and  for  his  treatment  there  by  the 
famous  surgeon,  Doctor  Elliot. 

Charles  was  at  work,  hoeing  corn,  when  from  the 
thicket  bordering  the  field  Kenneth  and  Martin 
stealthily  emerged  and  joined  him,  having  crept 
around  from  the  barn. 

"It  is  all  right,"  Kenneth  said,  with  an  assuring 
smile.  "Nobody  is  in  sight  on  the  road  for  a  mile 
either  way.  We  can  dodge  back  any  minute  at  the 
slightest  sound.  It's  hell,  Brown,  to  stay  there  like 
a  pig  being  fattened  for  the  killing.  This  is  monot 
onous,  I  tell  you.  I  can't  stand  it  very  long.  That 
man  must  get  to  Atlanta.  Mary  is  off  this  morning 
to  borrow  cash  for  it.  Our  credit  is  gone.  Nobody 
will  indorse  for  the  old  man  but  Albert  Frazier, 
and  I  think  his  name  is  none  too  good  here  lately." 

' '  He  will  get  the  money  for  sister,  see  if  he  doesn't, ' ' 
Martin  spoke  up,  plaintively.  "She  is  trying  to 
keep  him  from  it,  though;  that's  why  she  went  off 
this  morning.  She  doesn't  care  for  him — she  doesn't 

255 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

— she  doesn't!  She  knows  what  he  is.  She  couldn't 
love  a  man  like  that.  I  hate  him.  He  claims  to 
be  helping  us,  and  he  is,  I  reckon,  but  he  has  an 
object  in  view,  and  I'd  die  rather  than  have  him 
gain  it." 

"No,  I  don't  want  her  to  marry  him,  either." 
Kenneth's  voice  had  a  touch  of  genuine  manliness 
in  it  which  Charles  noticed  for  the  first  time.  More 
over,  his  face  was  very  grave.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  flushed  slightly  as  he  went  on.  "I've 
been  watching  you,  Brown.  Having  nothing  else 
to  do  all  day  long,  I've  watched  you  at  your  work 
and  seen  you  come  and  go  from  the  field  to  the 
house  and  back.  I  envy  you.  To  tell  you  the  God's 
truth,  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  way  I've  been  living. 
They  say  I  am  responsible  for  Martin  being  in  this 
mess,  too.  I  reckon  I  am,  and  I  know  I  am  the  cause 
of  sister's  worry  and  the  disgrace  of  all  this  on  the 
family.  They  say  an  honest  confession  is  good  for 
the  soul,  and  I  say  to  you  that  if  this  damned  thing 
passes  over  I'm  going  to  take  a  different  course. 
I  see  the  pleasure  you  get  out  of  working,  and  I 
am  going  to  work.  The  other  thing  is  not  what  it 
is  cracked  up  to  be." 

Kenneth's  voice  had  grown  husky,  and  he  cleared 
his  throat  and  coughed;  the  light  of  shame  still 
shone  in  his  eyes. 

"He  means  it,"  Martin  said,  throwing  his  arm 
about  his  brother  and  leaning  on  him  affectionately. 
' '  Last  night  when  he  found  me  awake  he  came  over 
to  my  corner  and  sat  down  and  talked.  He  said 
he'd  got  so  he  couldn't  sleep  sound,  either.  It  was 
wonderful  the  way  he  talked,  Mr.  Brown.  I  didr't 

256 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

know  Ken  was  like  that.  He  talked  about  mother 
and  about  sister's  brave  fight  against  so  many  odds 
— and,  may  I  tell  him,  Ken?  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,"  Kenneth  answered. 
He  was  seated  on  the  ground,  his  eyes  resting  on  the 
gray  roof  of  the  house  which  could  be  seen  above 
the  trees,  outlined  against  the  blue  sky  and  drifting 
white  clouds.  "I'm  not  ashamed  of  anything  I  said.'' 

"Why,  he  said,"  Martin  went  on,  "that  he  ad 
mired  you  more  than  any  man  he  had  ever  run 
across.  He  said  what  you  told  him  about  how  you 
used  to  drink  and  gamble — when  you  could  have 
kept  it  to  yourself — and  how  you  had  quit  it  all 
and  put  it  behind  you  because  it  was  the  sensible 
thing  to  do —  Ken  said  that  was  the  strongest 
argument  he  had  ever  heard,  and  that  he  liked  you 
because  you  seemed  to  want  him  to  do  the  same 
thing." 

"I  did  appreciate  that  talk,  Brown,"  Kenneth  ad 
mitted.  "You  put  it  to  me  in  a  different  light  from 
any  one  else.  You  spoke  like  a  man  that  had 
burnt  himself  at  a  fire,  and  was  warning  others  to 
stay  away  from  it.  I  don't  care  where  you  come 
from  or  what  you  were  when  you  landed  here,  you 
are  a  gentleman.  You  have  made  me  feel  ashamed 
of  myself,  and  I  am  man  enough  to  say  so. 
I've  been  bluffing  in  this  thing.  I  have  felt  it  as 
much  as  Martin,  but  wouldn't  let  on.  I've  not 
been  asleep  all  the  time  when  he  thought  I  was. 
God  only  knows  how  I've  lain  awake  and  what 
I've  been  through  in  my  mind." 

Suddenly  Kenneth  rose;  his  face  was  full  and 
257 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

dark  with  suppressed  emotion,  and  he  stalked  away 
toward  the  barn. 

"He  is  not  like  he  used  to  be,"  Martin  remarked, 
softly,  his  eyes  on  his  brother.  "All  this  has  had  a 
big  effect  on  him.  It  is  strange,  but  I  often  try- 
to  comfort  him  now.  He  is  worried  about  Albert 
Frazier." 

"About  him  ?"  Charles  exclaimed,  under  his  breath. 

"Yes.  He  doesn't  like  to  feel  that  we  are  in  his 
power  so  completely.  He  is  afraid  sister  will  marry 
him,  and  she  will,  Mr.  Brown,  if  she  fails  to  get  that 
money  elsewhere.  I  don't  think  she  really  wants  to 
marry  him.  She  pretends  to  like  him,  but  that  is 
all  put  on  to  fool  me  and  Ken.  He  is  working  for  us. 
Every  day  he  tells  the  sheriff  something  to  throw 
him  off  our  track.  He  actually  forged  a  letter  that 
he  showed  to  his  brother  which  he  claimed  was  from 
a  friend  in  Texas  saying  that  me  and  Ken  had  been 
seen  at  Forth  Worth,  on  our  way  West.  When 
sister  told  Ken  that  it  made  him  mad.  A  week  ago 
he  would  have  chuckled  over  it,  but  now  he  hates  it 
because  it  sort  o'  binds  sister  to  Frazier.  A  man 
that  will  fool  his  own  brother  like  that  is  not  the 
right  sort  for  a  sweet  girl  like  my  sister  to  live  with 
all  her  life.  Father  wouldn't  care  much,  but  Ken 
and  I  would.  We  have  been  running  with  a  tough 
crowd,  but  we  know  that  we've  got  good  blood  in 
our  veins." 

Presently  Martin  left,  went  to  keep  his  brother 
company,  and  Charles  resumed  his  plodding  work 
in  the  young  corn.  He  gave  himself  up  to  gloomy 
meditation.  What  a  strange  thing  his  life  had  been ! 
How  queer  it  was  that  nothing  prior  to  his  arrival 

258 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

there  in  the  mountains  now  claimed  his  interest, 
William,  Celeste,  Ruth,  old  Boston  friends,  college 
chums,  business  associates — all  had  retired  from  his 
consciousness,  almost  as  if  they  had  never  existed. 
The  fortunes  of  this  particular  family  wholly  ab 
sorbed  him.  He  could  have  embraced  Martin  while 
the  boy  was  talking,  because  of  his  resemblance  in 
voice  and  features  to  Mary.  He  respected  Kenneth 
for  his  fresh  resolutions,  and  pitied  him  as  he  had 
once  pitied  himself.  His  hoe  tinkled  like  a  bell, 
at  times,  on  the  small  round  stones  buried  in  the 
mellow  soil.  The  mountain  breeze  fanned  his  hot 
brow.  Accidentally  he  cut  down  a  young  plant  of 
corn,  and  all  but  shuddered  as  he  -wondered  if  it, 
too,  could  feel,  think,  and  suffer.  He  saw  a  busy 
cluster  of  red  ants,  and  left  them  undisturbed.  They 
were  sinking  a  shaft,  he  knew  not  how  deep,  in  the 
earth.  One  by  one  they  brought  to  the  surface  tiny 
bits  of  clay  or  sand,  rolled  them  down  a  little  em 
bankment,  and  hurried  away  for  other  burdens. 
That  they  thought,  planned,  and  calculated  he  could 
not  doubt.  He  himself  was  a  monster  too  great  in 
size  for  their  comprehension.  Had  he  stepped  upon 
them  their  universe  would  have  gone  out  of  existence. 
He  wondered  if  they  loved  one  another,  if  their 
social  system  would  have  permitted  one  of  their 
number  to  go  into  voluntary  exile  and  in  that  exile 
to  find  a  joy  never  before  comprehended. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

MARY  rode  to  house  after  house  on  her  way  to 
Carlin,  but  met  with  no  success  in  the  matter 
of  borrowing  money.  It  was  near  noon  when  she 
entered  the  straggling  suburbs  of  the  village.  At  a 
ramshackle  livery-stable  she  dismounted  and  left 
her  horse  in  the  care  of  a  negro  attendant  whose 
father  had  once  been  owned  by  her  family.  She 
called  him  "Pete";  he  addressed  her  as  "Young 
Miss,"  and  was  most  obsequious  in  his  attentions 
and  profuse  in  promises  to  care  for  her  horse. 

Opposite  the  hotel  stood  a  tiny  frame  building 
having  only  one  room.  It  was  a  lawyer's  office,  as 
was  indicated  by  the  sanded  tin  sign  holding  the 
gilt  letters  of  the  occupant's  name — "Chester  A. 
Lawton,  At'y  at  Law." 

He  was  a  young  man  under  thirty,  who  had  met 
Mary  several  times  at  the  hotel  when  she  was 
visiting  Mrs.  Quinby.  He  was  seated  at  a  bare 
table,  reading  a  law-book,  when  she  appeared  at 
the  open  door.  He  had  left  off  his  coat,  the 
weather  being  warm,  and  on  seeing  her  he  hastily 
got  into  it,  flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  thick  dark 
hair. 

"You  caught  me  off  my  guard,  Miss  Mary,"  he 
apologized,  awkwardly.  "I  know  I  oughtn't  to  sit 

260 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

here  without  my  coat  in  plain  view  of  the  street, 
trat  the  old  lawyers  do  it,  and — " 

"It  is  right  for  you  to  do  so,"  Mary  broke  in, 
quite  self-possessed.  "I  only  wanted  to  see  you  a 
moment.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  what  is  customary 
in  regard  to  fees  for  getting  legal  advice." 

Lawton  pulled  at  his  dark  mustache,  even  more 
embarrassed.  "I — I — really  am  rather  new  at  the 
work,  Miss  Mary;  in  fact,  I'm  just  getting  started," 
he  answered,  haltingly.  ' '  I  suppose  that  such  things 
depend  on  the — the  nature  of  the  case,  and  the  re 
search  work,  reading,  you  know,  and — oh,  well,  a 
lawyer  sometimes  has  expenses.  He  has  to  travel 
in  some  cases.  Yes,  fees  all  depend  on  that  sort  of 
thing." 

He  was  politely  proffering  a  straight-backed  chair, 
and  as  she  sat  down  she  forced  a  smile.  ''To  be 
frank,"  she  went  on,  "I  don't  know  whether  I  really 
ought  to  employ  a  lawyer  or  not,  and  I  was  wondering 
how  much  it  would  cost  to  find  out  the  probable 
expense." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  laughed  Lawton,  as  he  sat  down  op 
posite  her,  leaned  on  the  table,  and  pushed  his  open 
book  aside.  "Well,  111  tell  you,  Miss  Mary.  I 
don't  know  what  the  older  chaps  do,  but  I  make  it 
a  rule  not  to  charge  a  cent  for  talking  over  a  case 
with  a  person.  That  is  right  and  proper.  If  you 
have  any  legal  matter  in  mind,  all  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  state  it  to  me — that  is,  if  you  have  honored  me 
by  thinking  my  advice  might  be  worth  while — and 
if  I  see  anything  in  your  case  I'll  then  advise  you  to 
proceed,  or  not,  as  I  deem  best." 

Lawton  seemed  rather  pleased  at  the  untram- 
261 


meled  smoothness  of  his  subdued  oratory,  and  waited 
for  her  to  speak. 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said, 
"You  see,  I  don't  know  whether  I  really  ought  to 
seek  legal  advice  yet,  at  any  rate,  and — "  She  broke 
off  suddenly. 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Lawton,  trying  to  help  her 
out,  "may  I  ask  if  you  are  referring  to — to  the  little 
trouble  your  brothers  are  in?" 

She  nodded,  swallowed  a  lump  of  emotion  in  her 
throat,  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "Father 
wouldn't  attend  to  it,  and  I  got  to  worrying  about 
it — about  whether  advice  ought  to  be  had  or  not. 
We  are  terribly  hard  up  for  ready  money  and  have 
got  into  debt  already." 

"Well,  I'll  be  frank  with  you,  Miss  Mary,  and 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  that  may  be  to 
your  interest.  Now  if  you  had  gone  to — we'll  say 
to  Webster  and  Bright,  across  the  street,  they,  no 
doubt,  would  expect  you  to  pay  and  pay  big  whether 
you  needed  a  lawyer  or  not.  Old  law  firms  have  strict 
rules  on  that  line,  I  understand.  Everything  is 
'grist  that  comes  to  their  mill,'  as  the  saying  is,  for 
they  will  tell  anybody  that  they  are  not  paying 
office  rent  for  fun.  But  it  is  different  with  a  young 
chap  that  is  just  getting  on  his  feet  in  the  pro 
fession.  Now,  knowing  you  as  I  do,  and  having 
had  several  agreeable  talks  with  you,  I'd  hate 
like  rips  to  charge  for  any  advice  I  can  give  un 
less — unless  it  was  of  great  benefit  to  you;  and  the 
truth  is,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you  need  a 
lawyer." 

"Oh,  you  mean —  But  I  don't  understand!" 
262 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mary   exclaimed,  not   knowing  whether  his  words 
boded  well  or  ill  for  her. 

"Why,  it  is  like  this,  Miss  Mary.  There  are  tricks 
in  my  trade,  as  in  all  others,  and  as  matters  stand 
in  the  case  of  your  brothers — well,  if  Tobe  Keith 
should  happen  to  pull  through,  the  charges  against 
them  would  be  so  insignificant  that  the  courts  would 
be  likely  to  dismiss  them  entirely.  That,  no  doubt, 
is  a  slipshod  method,  but  it  is  peculiar  to  us  here 
in  the  Soutk.  You  see,  your  father  stands  high — 
nobody  higher,  in  fact;  he  fought  for  the  Confed 
eracy,  has  always  been  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  has 
no  end  of  influential  kinsfolk.  Why,  the  district 
attorney  himself  is  a  sort  of  distant  cousin,  isn't 
he?  Seems  to  me  that  I  have  heard  him  telling 
your  father  one  day  that  if  he  ever  printed  that 
family  history  he'd  subscribe  for  several  copies,  be 
cause  his  name  was  to  be  in  it,  somehow — on  his 
mother's  side,  I  think.  Then  the  Governor  is  akin, 
too,  isn't  he?  I  thought  so"  (seeing  Mary  nod) 
"and  the  Kingsleys  and  Warrens.  Oh,  take  it  from 
me,  Miss  Mary,  if  Tobe  Keith  does  get  on  his  feet 
your  brothers  will  not  even  be  arrested.  So  I'll 
not  take  any  fee  from  you — yet  awhile,  anyway; 
and  I'm  going  to  say,  too,  that  I'd  keep  the  boys 
out  West.  It  is  a  good  thing  they  went  to 
Texas.  I  suppose  they  are  out  there,  dodging 
about.  I  heard  Sheriff  Frazier  say  so  the  other 
day  (his  brother  Al  had  picked  up  the  news  some 
how  or  other),  but  he  hadn't  decided  to  institute 
a  search  till  there  was  a  change  in  Tobe's  condi 
tion." 

"Have  you  heard  from  him  to-day?"  Mary  asked, 
18  263 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  she  all  but  held  her  breath  as  she  steadily  eyed 
the  lawyer. 

"No  change  at  all,  I  understand,"  Lawton 
answered.  "The  doctors  still  say  he  must  be  taken 
to  Atlanta  to  get  the  ball  out." 

"Yes,  that  must  be  done,"  Mary  sighed,  and 
her  face  became  graver.  "I  am  trying  to  raise 
the  money — four  hundred  dollars.  Mr.  Lawton, 
can  you  tell  me  how  to  do  it?  I  have  no  se 
curity." 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Mary" — Lawton's  color  height 
ened  and  he  screwed  his  eyes  up  in  embarrassment — • 
"that  I  can't  help  you  out  on  that  line.  Everybody 
I  know  is  in  debt  or  short  of  funds.  The  bank  is 
awfully  strict,  and  high  on  interest,  too.  Your 
father  and  Albert  Frazier  drew  up  some  sort  of  a 
paper  at  this  table  the  other  day.  I  think  Frazier 
went  his  security,  put  his  name  on  a  note  at  the 
bank.  I  heard  them  talking  about  how  difficult 
it  was  to  get  money.  I  think  Albert  has  about  run 
through  the  little  pile  his  old  daddy  left  him.  He 
is  a  high-flyer  for  these  times — free  and  easy  with 
his  money  as  long  as  it  lasts." 

"So  you  can't  tell  me  any  one  to  go  to?"  Mary 
rose  and  began  to  adjust  the  veil  on  her  hat. 

"No,  I  can't,  Miss  Mary.  There  ought  to  be 
a  public  fund  for  such  cases  of  need  as  Tobe's. 
Yes,  you  must  take  some  steps  in  his  behalf.  It 
would  look  well  from  any  point  of  view.  Tobe 
didn't  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  neither  did 
your  brothers.  If  Tobe  gets  over  it,  it  may  be  a 
good  lesson  to  all  three." 

Mary  was  at  the  door  now;  he  followed  and 
264 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

stood  bowing  her  out,  while  she  thanked  him  for 
his  helpful  advice. 

She  was  crossing  the  street  when  Albert  Frazier, 
seated  in  a  buggy,  with  his  brother,  drove  by.  She 
thought  he  might  get  out  and  speak  to  her,  but  he 
simply  tipped  his  hat  and  transferred  his  gaze  to 
the  back  of  the  trotting  bay  horse.  She  noted  that 
the  sheriff,  whom  she  had  never  met,  had  not  noticed 
her  nor  his  brother's  salutation. 

She  went  into  the  post-office  to  get  some  stamps, 
and  when  she  came  out  Albert  Frazier  was  waiting 
for  her  on  the  sidewalk. 

"I  would  have  got  out  when  I  passed  you  just 
now,"  he  said,  beaming  on  her  admiringly,  "but  I 
was  with  John,  you  see;  and — well,  to  be  plain, 
he  doesn't  know  about  me  and  you,  and  right  now 
especially  I  don't  want  him  to  get  on  to  it." 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  coldly,  looking  away 
from  him.  "Aren't  you  afraid  he  will  see  us  now?" 

"No.  He  has  gone  on  home.  His  wife  isn't  well. 
Say,  little  girl,  you  are  not  mad,  are  you?" 

"Oh  no,"  she  answered,  forcing  a  smile. 

"Well,"  he  bridled,  "it  is  for  your  own  good  and 
the  boys'.  I'm  having  a  tough  job  keeping  John 
from  suspecting  the  truth.  If  I  hadn't  got  up  that 
bogus  letter  from  Texas  he  might  have  had  his  men 
searching  the  mountains,  or  watching  you  and  that 
hobo  circus  man  take  food  out  to  them  in  their  cave. 
I'm  doing  all  I  can  for  you  and  I  think  you  ought 
not  to  get  on  your  high  horse  as  you  do  sometimes.'* 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  tremulously,  the  muscles 
of  her  lips  twitching.  "I  know  what  you  are  doing, 
and  I  appreciate  it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

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THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

Her  grateful  words  put  him  in  a  better  mood. 
They  were  about  to  cross  the  street  again;  a  wagon 
loaded  with  cotton-bales  was  passing.  He  was 
hardly  justified  in  doing  so,  for  she  needed  no  as 
sistance,  but  he  took  hold  of  her  arm,  and  she  felt 
his  throbbing  fingers  pressing  it.  She  drew  away 
from  him.  "Don't!"  she  said,  impulsively. 

"There  you  go  again,"  he  cried,  but  not  angrily, 
for  her  natural  restraint  had  been  one  of  her  chief 
attractions.  Other  girls  had  given  in  more  easily 
and  had  been  forgotten  by  him,  but  Mary  was  dif 
ferent.  There  was,  moreover,  always  that  con 
sciousness  on  his  part  of  her  social  superiority. 
He  wanted  her  for  a  wife,  and,  situated  as  she  now 
was,  he  had  never  felt  so  sure  of  her. 

"When  are  you  going  to  let  me  give  you  that 
money?"  it  now  occurred  to  him  to  ask.  "Tobe 
must  be  removed,  you  know." 

A  look  of  deep  pain  struggled  in  the  features  she 
was  trying  to  keep  passive.  "I  haven't  quite  given 
up  the  hope  of  getting  it  elsewhere,"  she  finally 
said.  "If  I  quite  fail,  I'll  come  to  you.  I've  said 
so,  and  I'll  keep  my  word." 

At  this  moment  a  farmer  came  up  to  Frazier 
and  said  that  he  wanted  to  speak  to  him  a  moment. 
Excusing  himself  and  bowing,  Frazier  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AS  she  walked  on  Mary  was  glad  that  Frazier  had 
•**•  been  called  away  before  he  had  asked  her 
whither  she  was  going,  for  she  did  not  want  him  to 
know  that  she  had  decided  to  call  at  Tobe  Keith's 
home  and  inquire  personally  about  his  condition. 
It  struck  her  as  being  incongruous  that  she  was 
already  keeping  things  from  the  man  she  might 
eventually  marry.  And  at  this  moment  various 
thoughts  of  Charles  fairly  besieged  her  brain.  Some 
how  she  could  not  imagine  herself  keeping  any  vital 
thing  from  him.  How  strange,  and  he  such  a  new 
friend !  She  found  herself  blushing,  she  knew  not  why. 
What  was  it  about  the  man  that  appealed  to  her 
so  strongly?  Was  it  the  mystery  that  constantly 
enveloped  him,  and  out  of  which  had  come  such  a 
stream  of  generous  acts,  or  was  it  the  constant 
heart-hungry  and  lonely  look  of  the  man  who  cer 
tainly  was  out  of  his  natural  sphere  as  a  common 
laborer? 

Her  way  took  her  through  the  poorest  section 
of  the  little  town.  Small  houses,  some  having  only 
two  and  three  rooms  each,  bordered  the  rugged,  un- 
paved  little  streets.  Part  of  the  section  was  known 
as  the  "Negro  Settlement,"  and  there  stood  a  little 
steepled  church,  with  green  blinds,  the  walls  of 

267 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

which,  in  default  of  paint,  had  received  frequent 
coatings  of  whitewash  at  the  hands  of  the  swarthy 
devotees.  She  had  no  trouble  in  finding  her  way, 
for  she  already  had  a  general  idea  of  where  the 
mother  of  the  wounded  man  lived,  and  only  had 
to  ask  as  to  the  particular  house. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Keith  lives?"  she 
inquired  of  a  little  negro  boy  amusing  himself  in  a 
swing. 

"You  mean  the  man  that  was  kilt?"  the  child 
asked,  blandly,  as  he  halted  himself  by  thrusting 
his  bare  feet  down  on  the  ground. 

"The  man  that  was — hurt,"  Mary  corrected, 
shuddering  over  the  way  the  boy  had  put  his  reply. 

"De  las'  house  at  the  end  er  de  street,  on  dis  yer 
side.  You  cayn't  miss  it.  Miz'  Keith  got  grape 
vines  in  'er  front  yard,  en'  er  goat  en'  chickens  en' 
ducks." 

She  found  it  without  trouble.  The  house  had 
four  small  rooms  and  a  crude  lean-to  shed  which 
served  as  a  kitchen.  A  slender,  thin  woman  of  the 
lowest  class  of  whites,  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
scantily  attired  in  a  plain  print  skirt  and  a  waist 
of  white  cotton  material,  her  iron-gray  hair  plastered 
down  on  the  sides  of  her  face  from  a  straight  part 
in  the  middle  of  her  head  and  drawn  to  a  small 
doughnut-shaped  knot  behind,  sat  in  the  doorway 
smoking  a  clay  pipe  with  a  reed  stem.  As  Mary 
arrived  at  the  little  gate,  which  was  kept  closed 
by  a  rope  fastened  to  a  stake  and  from  which  hung 
a  brick  for  a  weight,  she  looked  up,  drew  her  coarsely 
shod  feet  under  her,  and  took  the  pipe  from  her 
mouth.  She  must  have  recognized  the  visitor,  for 

268 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

j 

she  contracted  her  thin  brows  and  allowed  a  sullen, 
resentful  expression  to  spread  over  her  wrinkled 
face  and  tighten  the  muscles  of  her  lips. 

"May  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Keith?"  Mary  asked, 
holding  the  gate  partly  open  and  dubiously  waiting 
for  a  response. 

The  pipe  was  clutched  more  firmly  and  the 
woman  stared  straight  at  her.  "You  may  come 
in  if  you  want  to,"  was  the  caustic  answer.  "We 
don't  keep  no  bitin'  dog.  I  didn't  low  the  likes  of 
you  would  want  to  come,  after  what's  happened, 
but  if  you  do  I  can't  hinder  you  an'  Tobe  hain't 
able  to  prevent  it,  nuther." 

"Who  is  it,  mother?"  came  a  faint  voice  from 
within  the  house. 

"Never  mind,  sonny,  who  it  is,"  the  old  woman 
called  back.  "I'll  tell  you  after  awhile.  Remember 
what  the  doctor  said,  that  you  must  not  get  ex 
cited  an'  lift  your  fever." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  behind  the  grim 
sentinel  at  the  door,  and  Mary  lowered  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go  away,  Mrs.  Keith,"  she 
faltered.  "I  thought  I  might  see  you  alone.  That's 
why  I  came.  I  don't  want  to  disturb  your  son — I 
wouldn't,  for  all  the  world.  Mrs.  Keith,  I  am  un 
happy  over  this,  too." 

"Huh!  I  don't  see  nothin'  fer  you  to  be  upset 
over!"  sneered  the  old  woman.  "Your  brothers  lit 
out  fer  new  fields  an'  pastures  with  money  to  pay 
expenses  with,  like  all  highfalutin  folks  manage  to 
git,  while  us  pore  scrub  stock  o'  whites  has  to  suffer, 
like  Tobe  is  thar  on  his  back,  unable  to  move,  an' 

269 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

with  barely  enough  t'  eat  except  what  neighbors 
send  in." 

No  seat  was  offered  the  visitor;  the  speaker  grimly 
kept  her  chair,  her  stiff  knees  parted  for  the  recep 
tion  between  them  of  her  two  gnarled  rebellious 
hands  and  the  clay  pipe. 

"I  came  to  ask — I  had  to  come,"  Mary  faltered, 
her  sweet  face  whitened  by  the  rising  terrors  within 
her.  "I  came  to  see  if  any  arrangements  are  being 
made  to — to —  I  understand  the  doctors  advise 
your  son's  removal  to  Atlanta,  and — " 

"They  advise  anything  to  shuffle  the  blame  off 
their  own  shoulders,"  blurted  out  the  stubborn 
woman.  "They  see  they  ain't  able  to  do  nothing, 
an'  they  want  my  boy  to  die  some'r's  else,  to  save 
the  county  the  expense  of — of — "  and  she  choked 
down  a  sob,  a  dry,  alien  thing  in  her  scrawny  neck. 
"I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  be  sent,  so  I  don't.  Sis 
Latimer,  my  cousin,  a  preacher's  wife,  has  traipsed 
over  two  counties,  tryin'  to  raise  the  four  hundred 
dollars,  and  now  says  it  can't  be  done.  That  was  the 
last  straw  to  Tobe.  He  lay  thar,  after  she  left,  an' 
I  heard  'im  cryin'  under  the  sheet,  to  keep  me  from 
hearin'  him.  He  says  he  hain't  got  nothin'  ag'in' 
your  two  brothers  now.  He  says  they  was  all  to 
blame,  an'  if  they  hadn't  been  drunk  an'  gamblin' 
it  wouldn't  'a'  happened.  Tobe's  a  odd  boy — he 
forgives  in  a  minute ;  but  I  hain't  that  way.  I  know 
how  your  brothers  felt.  They  looked  on  my  boy 
like  dirt  under  their  feet  because  you  folks  used  to 
own  niggers  and  live  so  high  in  your  fine  house  with 
underlings  to  run  an'  fetch  for  you  at  every  call. 
Kenneth  Rowland  would  have  thought  a  second 

270 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

time  before  pullin'  down  on  a  feller  in  his  own  set. 
Oh,  I  heard  the  filthy  name  he  called  Tobe,an'I  didn't 
blame  my  boy  for  hittin'  him,  as  they  say  he  did, 
smack  on  the  jaw.  A  blow  with  the  bare  hand,  after 
a  word  like  that  is  passed,  doesn't  justify  the  use  of 
a  gun  while  another  feller  is  pinnin'  a  man's  arms 
down  at  his  side  so  he  can't  budge  an  inch.  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  may  not  know,  an'  that  is  that 
if  my  boy  does  die  them  two  whelps  will  be  hunted 
down  and  strung  up  by  the  neck  till  they  are  dead, 
dead,  dead!  Thar  never  was  a  plainer  case  o'  mur 
der — cold-blooded  murder.  They  say — folks  say 
your  brothers  are  livin'  like  lords  in  the  West  on 
money  sent  to  'em  by  rich  kin  to  escape  disgrace. 
The  sheriff  said  so  hisse'f,  an'  he  ort  to  know.  He's 
jest  waitin'  to  see  what  comes  o'  Tobe.  Your  turn 
an'  your  stiff -backed,  haughty  old  daddy's  is  comin', 
my  fine  young  lady." 

The  faint  voice  was  heard  protesting  from  the  in 
terior  of  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Keith  rose  and  stalked 
to  the  bed  on  which  the  wounded  man  lay.  He 
said  something  in  a  low,  guarded  tone  and  Mary 
heard  his  mother  answer: 

"I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  was  you,  honey.  Let 
'er  go  on.  I  can't  stan'  the  sight  of  'er,  after  what 
has  happened.  She  looks  so  uppity,  in  'er  fine  clothes 
an'  white  skin  not  touched  by  the  sun,  while  me 
an'  you — " 

The  man's  voice  broke  in,  plaintively  rumbling, 
as  if  from  a  great  distance.  He  must  have  been  in 
sisting  on  some  point  to  be  gained,  for  he  continued 
talking,  now  and  then  coughing  and  spitting  audibly. 

"Well,  well,"  Mrs.  Keith  exclaimed,  'Til  tell  'er. 
271 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  think  it  is  foolish,  but  I'll  tell  'er.  Do  you  want 
me  to  comb  your  head  a  little  an'  spruce  you  up 
some?" 

He  evidently  did,  for  Mary  was  kept  waiting  ten 
minutes  longer.  Then  the  sullen  virago  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  "Tobe  wants  you  to  come  in  and 
see  'im,"  she  reluctantly  announced. 

Despite  the  feeling  that  she  was  unwelcomed  by 
the  woman,  Mary  saw  no  alternative  but  to  go  in. 
She  regretted  it  the  instant  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
wasted  form  on  the  unkempt  bed  and  beheld  the 
eager  orbs  peering  at  her  from  deep,  dark  sockets 
beneath  shaggy  brows.  The  room  seemed  to  swing 
around  her,  the  crude  board  floor  to  rise  and  fall 
like  the  waves  of  a  rocking  sea,  the  bed  to  float  like 
a  raft  holding  a  starving  derelict.  Grasping  the 
back  of  a  chair  for  support,  Mary  leaned  on  it  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  slightly  recovering,  she  sat 
dov/n,  wondering  if  she  could  possibly  bear  the  im 
pending  ordeal. 

"I'm  glad  you  thought  enough  o'  me  to  come, 
Miss  Mary,"  Tobe  began,  in  the  instinctive  tone  of 
respect  that  his  class  had  for  hers,  "an'  I  want  to 
say  something  to  you."  He  hesitated  and  lifted 
his  eyes  to  his  mother,  who  was  standing  at  the  foot 
of  his  bed.  "Ma,"  he  said,  "will  you  please  go  out 
a  little  while — just  a  little  while?" 

"Me!  Why,  I'd  like  to  know?"  she  fiercely  de 
manded.  ' ' Surely  you  hain't  got  no  secrets  from  me  ?" 

"I  hain't  got  no  secrets,  but  I  want  to  talk  free 
an'  easy  like  to  Miss  Mary,  an'  somehow  when  you 
stan'  lookin'  like  that  an*  thinkin'  what  I  know 
you  are  thinkin' — well,  I  just  can't  talk,  that's  all." 

272 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Humph!  I  say!  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  come- 
off!"  Mrs.  Keith  fairly  quivered  with  suppressed 
rage.  "Can't  talk  before  me,  eh?  An'  me  your 
mother  at  that.  Well,  well,  I  won't  hender  you, 
though  you  know  the  doctor  told  me  to  keep  you 
perfectly  quiet,  an'  here  you  are —  Well,  well,  I'll 
go ;  if  you  feel  that-away  I'll  go !  A  mother's  feelings 
is  never  paid  attention  to  nohow." 

Mary  tried  to  protest,  but  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say  under  the  circumstances;  besides,  the  angry 
woman,  was  already  whirling  away.  Mary  heard 
her  treading  the  creaking  boards  of  the  adjoining 
room. 

"Please  move  your  chair  up  a  little  mite  closer," 
Tobe  requested.  "I've  got  just  so  much  wind,  an' 
no  more,  an'  I  can  talk  easier  when  you  are  close  to 
me." 

She  obeyed,  feeling  like  an  inanimate  thing  pushed 
forward  by  some  designing  force.  His  thin  hand 
lay  within  her  reach.  It  was  a  repulsive  object, 
and  yet  the  same  force  directed  her  to  take  it;  she 
did  so,  and  with  the  act  all  her  fears,  all  her  timidity, 
left  her.  She  pressed  it  gently;  she  leaned  forward 
and  stroked  it  almost  caressingly  with  her  other 
hand.  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes ;  they  broke  their 
bounds  and  fell  upon  her  hands  and  his.  He  stared 
in  slow  astonishment,  his  lower  lip  quivered;  he 
closed  his  great,  somnolent  eyes  as  if  to  give  himself 
up  to  the  dreamlike  ecstasy  of  the  moment.  She 
saw  his  breast  shaking,  his  throat  moving  as  if  he 
were  swallowing  rising  sobs.  Silence  fell,  broken 
only  by  the  creaking  boards  in  the  next  room,  the 
clucking  of  a  busy  hen  in  the  yard,  the  chirping  of 

273 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

little  chickens,  the  thwacking  of  an  ax  at  a  wood 
pile  not  far  away.  Tobe  turned  his  face  from  her. 
She  saw  him  stealthily  wiping  his  eyes  on  a  soiled 
handkerchief. 

"I'm  gittin'  to  be  a  fool,  a  babyish  fool,"  he  said, 
presently.  "Lyin*  here  like  this  is  calculated  to 
make  a  feller  that-away,  an'  you  bein'  so  kind  an' 
gentle,  too,  is — is  sorter  surprisin'.  A  sick  man  can 
hear  a  lot  o'  ridiculous  things  when  he  is  down  like 
this.  You  see,  I'm  surrounded  mostly  by  women,  an' 
they  chatter  a  lot.  Anyways,  you  hain't  nothin'  like 
most  of  'em  say  you  are — too  proud  an'  stuck  up 
even  to  inquire  about  a  feller  in  my  fix.  Yes,  I'm 
glad  you  come,  so  I  am.  I  hain't  heard  anything 
lately  but  revenge!  revenge!  revenge!  The  idle 
women  that  huddle  about  me  through  the  day  talk 
hate  from  morning  to  night.  They  got  Ma  at  it ;  she 
hain't  that-away  as  a  general  thing.  I  wanted  to  see 
you.  I've  seen  you  at  a  distance  an'  always  wanted 
to  get  a  closer  look.  They  all  say  you  are  pretty, 
an'  so  you  are.  By  all  odds,  I  should  count  you  the 
prettiest  young  lady  in  this  part  o'  the  country.  I 
know  I  hain't  never  seed  one  that  could  hold  a  candle 
to  you.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Ken  an'  Martin. 
Miss  Mary,  them  boys  hain't  bad  at  heart.  La! 
I  used  to  love  'em  both,  an'  they  liked  me,  too!  It 
was  just  rot-gut  liquor.  Mart  didn't  mean  no  harm 
by  holdin'  me  when  that  scrimmage  begun,  an'  Ken 
may  have  thought  he  saw  a  knife  in  my  hand  that 
I  was  about  to  stab  into  Martin.  I  understand  that's 
what  he  claimed  before  they  made  oil  to  the  West, 
an'  it  all  may  be  so,  for  a  drunk  feller  will  think  all 
sorts  o'  things.  I  wanted  to  see  you  because,  if  I 

274 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

do  peg  out — an'  it  looks  like  I'm  goin'  to — I  want 
you  to  write  this  to  the  boys.  I  want  you  to  tell 
'em,  Miss  Mary,  that  you  saw  me  an'  that  Tobe 
Keith  said  he  didn't  bear  no.  ill-will  an'  died  without 
hard  feelin's.  Tell  'em,  too,  that  I  said  I  hoped  they 
would  show  the  law  a  clean  pair  o'  heels,  for  it  looks 
like  they  will  have  trouble  if  they  are  fetched  back 
here.  Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  'em !  I  saw,  while  I  was  lyin' 
thar,  how  sorry  them  boys  looked  when  they  saw  what 
had  happened.  It  sobered  'em  in  a  minute,  an'  they 
would  have  stayed  to  help  me  if  their  friends  hadn't 
got  scared  an'  told  'em  to  run,  that  the  sheriff  was 
comin',  an'  the  like." 

"You  mustn't  say  you  are  going  to  die,  Tobe," 
Mary  faltered,  huskily,  still  gently  stroking  his 
hand.  Beads  of  perspiration  were  on  his  sallow 
brow,  and  with  her  handkerchief  she  wiped  them 
away.  "The  doctors  say  that  if  you  go  to  Atlanta, 
to  Doctor  Elliot's  sanatorium,  he  can — " 

"I've  given  that  up."  He  smiled  faintly.  "The 
money  ain't  in  sight  an'  never  will  be.  Besides, 
they  only  want  to  experiment  on  me.  I  know  my 
condition  better  than  they  do.  Surgical  skill  may 
be  all  right  in  many  such  cases,  but  mine  has  stood 
too  long.  I  hain't  afeard  to  die,  Miss  Mary,  but 
I  am  sorry  my  going  will  be  so  serious  for  Ken  an' 
Martin.  Do  you  know,  I  was  to  blame  chiefly. 
I  was  the  one  that  furnished  the  whisky  for  that 
racket.  I  got  it  from  a  moonshiner  I  know.  That 
is  between  you  an'  me,  Miss  Mary,  for  I  broke  the 
law  when  I  went  to  his  secret  still  an'  got  it  without 
reportin'  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MARY  remained  twenty  minutes  longer,  and 
when  she  was  going  out  at  the  gate  she  met 
Doctor  Harrison,  who  had  just  alighted  from  his 
buggy  and  was  hitching  his  horse  to  a  portable 
strap  and  iron  weight  near  the  fence.  He  doffed 
his  straw  hat  and  smiled  from  his  genial,  bearded, 
middle-aged  face  and  twinkling  blue  eyes. 

"So  you've  turned  nurse,  have  you?"  he  jested. 
"Well,  I'm  glad  you  came,  for  more  reasons  than 
one." 

"You  think  it  was  right,  then?"  she  answered. 

"Decidedly,  Miss  Mary.  At  such  a  time  as  this 
we  should  not  listen  to  gossip,  but  simply  act  hu 
manely." 

"I  hardly  knew  what  to  do,  for  some  persons 
thought  that  it  would  look  as  if  I — I  admitted  that 
my  brothers  were — " 

"I  know,"  the  doctor  broke  in,  "but,  neverthe 
less,  I'm  glad  you  put  that  aside.  If  I  were  on  a 
jury — •"  He  hesitated,  as  if  he  realized  that  he  was 
on  ground  forbidden  by  due  courtesy  to  her  feelings. 
"Well,"  he  started  anew,  "it  can't  possibly  do  any 
harm,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  feel  all  the  better 
for  it." 

"What  are  the  chances  for  his  recovery?"  Mary 
276 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

asked,  with  bated  breath,  as  she  met  his  mild  gaze 
with  her  steady  eyes. 

He  looked  toward  the  cottage  door,  placed  his 
whip  in  the  holder  on  the  dashboard  of  the  buggy, 
and  then  slowly  swept  his  eyes  back  to  her  face. 

' '  I  am  sorry  to  say — to  have  to  say — that  he  is  not 
doing  so  well.  He  seems  a  little  weaker.  However, 
when  he  gets  to  Atlanta —  I  hope  I  am  not  be 
traying  secrets,  but  I  met  Albert  Frazier  just  now 
and  he  told  me  that  you  had  about  concluded  ar 
rangements  to  supply  the  money.  He  did  not  say 
that  lie  was  telling  me  in  confidence,  but  he  may 
have  meant  it  that  way.  People  often  say  things 
to  doctors,  you  know,  that  they  would  not  make 
public,  and  if  it  is  a  private  matter — " 

"It  is  not,  Doctor.  I  know — at  least,  I  think  I 
know — where  I  can  get  the  money,  and  I  shall  not 
care  who  knows  that  it  is  from  me.  Tell  me,  please, 
do  you  think  it  best  to  send  Tobe  to  Atlanta?" 

"It  is  the  only  thing  to  do,"  was  the  decided 
answer.  ' '  You  see,  here  in  this  small  place  we  haven't 
the  facilities,  the  surgical  skill,  the  equipment  for 
such  a  critical  operation,  and  the  truth  is  we  all 
of  us  here  balk  at  it.  A  doctor  like  Elliot  can  afford 
to  take  the  risk,  you  see.  If  he  should  fail,  you  know 
there  would  be  no  criticism,  while  if  one  of  us  here 
were  to  do  so  we'd  be  thought — well,  almost  crimi 
nally  wrong." 

Mary's  face  was  brooded  over  now  by  a  shrdow. 
She  shuddered;  her  eyes  held  a  tortured  look.  "So 
you  think  he  ought  to  go  at  once?"  she  said. 

"The  sooner  the  better,  Miss  Mary,"  was  the 
prompt  answer.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he 

277 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

wondered  over  the  change  in  her  mood  as  he  lifted 
his  hat. 

"I'll  let  you  know  very  soon,  Doctor,"  were  her 
parting  words.  "Please  don't  mention  it,  for  the 
present,  anyway.  I  think  I  know  where  I  can  get 
the  money  that  is  needed." 

Mary  walked  on,  now  toward  the  square.  Her 
step  was  slow,  her  eyes  were  on  the  ground. 

"Oh  God!  how  can  I?  And  yet  I  must!"  she 
groaned.  "He  means  to  make  me  take  the  money; 
that  is  plain.  He  understands  what  it  would  mean, 
and  so  do  I;  but,  oh,  I  don't  want  to  marry  him. 
I'd  rather  die — I  would,  I  would,  I  would.  And  yet 
if  I  died— if  I  died—" 

She  had  to  pass  through  the  square  to  get  her 
horse,  and  she  dreaded  the  possible  encounter  again 
with  Albert  Frazier.  She  felt  relieved,  on  entering 
the  square,  to  notice  that  he  was  not  in  sight.  The 
plate-glass  window  of  the  bank,  with  its  gilt-lettered 
sign,  caught  her  eye.  Why  not  try  there  to  borrow 
the  money,  as  a  last  resort?  Perhaps  the  banker 
would  consider  lending  her  the  money  on  her  own 
name.  She  had  heard  of  loans  being  made  to  women 
who  had  no  security.  Yes,  she  would  try.  It  would 
be  a  last  effort,  but  she  must  make  it. 

Entering  the  little  building,  she  went  to  the  open 
ing  in  the  wire  netting  and  asked  the  cashier  if  Mr. 
Lingle  were  in.  She  was  answered  in  the  affirma 
tive  and  directed  to  a  half-closed  door  bearing  the 
words,  "The  President's  Office." 

She  opened  the  door  without  knocking,  and  saw 
the  back  and  shaggy  head  of  a  man  of  sixty,  without 
his  coat,  his  collar  and  necktie  loose,  his  sleeves 

278 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

rolled  up,  busy  writing.  Hearing  her,  he  turned, 
suppressed  a  frown  of  impatience,  stood  up  and 
bowed.  His  face  was  round,  beardless,  and  reddish 
in  tint. 

"Oh,  Miss  Mary,  how  are  you?"  he  asked,  awk 
wardly  extending  a  fat,  perspiring  hand.  "Want  to 
see  me,  eh,  personally?  Well,  I'm  at  your  service, 
though  these  are  busy  days  for  us.  What  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

Her  voice  seemed  to  have  deserted  her.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  fear  that  no  words  at  all  would 
come  from  her,  and  yet  immediately  she  heard  her 
self  speaking  in  a  calm,  steady  tone.  She  was  smil 
ing,  too,  as  if  she  knew  that  what  she  was  saying 
had  a  touch  of  absurdity  in  it. 

"I've  come  to  bore  you,"  she  said.  "I  need  some 
money,  not  on  my  father's  account  now,  Mr.  Lingle, 
for  I  know  about  his  debt  to  you,  but  for  myself, 
this  time.  I  have  no  security  beyond  my  word  and 
promise  to  pay.  It  is  a  very  serious  matter,  Mr. 
Lingle.  You  know  about  Tobe  Keith's  condition 
and  that  he  must  be  sent  to  Atlanta.  No  one  else 
will  pay  for  it,  and — " 

"So  you  are  going  to  mix  yourself  up  in  that 
mess,  are  you?"  asked  Lingle,  frowning  till  his 
shaggy  iron-gray  brows  met  and  all  but  overlapped. 
"If  you  were  my  daughter —  Oh,  what's  the  use? 
I'm  not  your  teacher,  but  if  you  were  in  my  charge 
I'd  make  you  stay  out  of  this.  I  know,  I  reckon, 
what's  the  matter.  You  feel  responsible  because 
your  brothers  were  held  accountable;  that's  like 
a  woman.  But  all  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
I  can't  let  you  have  any  money  at  all.  I'm  going  to 
19  279 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

be  plain.  Maybe  it  will  open  your  eyes  a  little  to 
the  facts.  My  dear  girl,  I  hold  a  mortgage  on  all 
the  crops  in  the  ground  at  your  place,  on  the  very 
tools,  cattle,  hogs,  and  horses.  Your  father — I  hate 
to  say  it — but  your  father  is  as  helpless  in  business 
matters  as  a  new-born  baby.  He  belongs  to  the 
old  order.  He  is  up  to  his  neck  in  debt  to  every 
friend  he  has.  I  can't  let  him  have  any  more  money, 
and  I  can't  let  you  have  any.  I  wouldn't  let  you 
have  it  for  what  you  want  it  even  if  you  had  good 
collateral  to  pin  to  your  note.  I  couldn't  conscien 
tiously  do  it,  for  it  would  be  throwing  it  away.  That 
drunken  roustabout  hasn't  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
to  live,  anyway,  and  the  country  would  be  better 
off  without  his  brand.  As  for  your  brothers — well, 
you'd  better  keep  them  in  the  West.  Men  of  your 
father's  stamp  don't  have  quite  the  influence  they 
used  to  have.  Our  courts  are  being  criticized  for 
their  lax  methods  so  much  that  our  judges  and  juries 
are  becoming  more  careful  in  administering  justice. 
If  Tobe  Keith  dies — well,  your  brothers  had  better 
stay  away,  that's  all." 

"So  there's  no  use  asking  you  to — " 

"No,  Miss  Mary,  this  bank  can't  mix  up  in  such 
matters  as  that.  Folks  from  up-to-date  towns  are 
making  fun  of  us,  too.  One  drummer  was  telling 
it  around  in  Atlanta  the  other  day  that  any  stranger 
could  cash  a  check  here  by  simply  inviting  us  to 
take  a  drink  or  handing  us  a  cheap  cigar.  We  are 
making  new  rules  and  sticking  to  them."  With  that 
the  president  of  the  bank  turned  toward  his  desk 
and  reached  out  for  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he 
had  been  writing. 

280 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Lingle,"  she  faltered.  "I  am 
sure  that  you  know  best." 

He  held  his  paper  in  his  left  hand  while  he  gave 
her  his  right,  and  made  a  sort  of  scraping  movement 
with  his  foot  as  he  executed  a  bow. 

As  she  went  back  into  the  main  room  she  was 
conscious  of  the  fear  that  Albert  Frazier  might  have 
discovered  her  presence  at  the  bank  and  be  waiting 
for  her  outside.  Why,  she  asked  herself,  was  the 
thought  actually  so  terrifying?  He  might  propose 
that  he  should  have  her  horse  sent  out  and  that  he 
be  allowed  to  drive  her  home.  In  that  case  it 
would  all  be  over.  She  would  have  to  give  the  prom 
ise  he  had  so  long  sought  and  she  had  so  long  with 
held.  A  thrill  of  relief  went  through  her  on  finding 
that  he  was  not  in  sight  anywhere  about  the  busy 
square.  She  walked  rapidly  now  toward  the  livery- 
stable,  still  with  the  fear  of  pursuit  on  her  that  was 
like  the  haunting  dread  of  a  nightmare.  She  was 
soon  in  the  saddle  and  galloping  homeward.  At  the 
point  where  the  village  street  gave  into  the  main 
country  road  she  checked  her  speed.  What,  after 
all,  was  she  running  from?  If  the  thing  was  inevi 
table,  what  was  the  use  in  putting  it  off?  Was  not 
the  delay  injurious  to  the  end  she  was  seeking? 
Might  not  even  another  day  count  fatally  against 
Tobe  Keith's  recovery?  Yes,  the  answer  was  yes, 
and  nothing  else.  If  it  had  to  be  done,  why  wait 
longer?  She  actually  tried  to  turn  the  head  of  her 
horse  toward  the  village,  but  the  animal  had  scented 
home  and  the  food  to  be  had  there,  and  refused, 
allowing  the  taut  rein  to  bend  his  neck  but  not  to 
guide  his  limbs.  She  finally  came  to  regard  it  as 

281 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

an  omen  to  be  obeyed  and  allowed  him  to  gallop 
on  toward  the  farm. 

As  she  neared  her  home  the  sun's  rays  were  dying 
out  of  the  landscape  and  the  dusk  was  gathering. 
Coming  to  meet  her  from  the  house  she  saw  Charles, 
and  she  wondered  what  had  happened,  for  he  never 
left  the  field  before  sundown;  moreover,  it  struck 
her  that  he  was  walking  rapidly,  as  if  to  reach  her 
before  she  got  to  the  house.  He  could  not  be  coming 
to  take  the  saddle  from  her  horse,  for  Kenneth  or 
Martin  at  the  stable  could  do  that.  She  summoned  a 
smile  as  she  greeted  him  at  the  barn-yard  gate  and 
he  reached  up  to  catch  the  bridle-rein.  To  her  sur 
prise  he  failed  to  return  it.  She  had  never  seen  a 
graver  expression  on  his  face  as  he  held  up  his 
strong  arms  to  help  her  down. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  now  alarmed. 

"Don't  get  frightened,"  he  said.  "After  all,  it 
may  amount  to  nothing,  but  still,  I  had  to  reach 
you  and  put  you  on  your  guard.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  call  out  or  whistle  to  your  brothers,  and  that 
wouldn't  do.  After  you  left,  they  were  so  quiet, 
and  remained  out  of  sight  so  persistently,  that,  as 
the  time  passed,  I  became  concerned  about  them. 
Usually,  you  know,  they  steal  out  and  go  into  the 
woods  for  recreation  or  join  me  at  my  work.  To-day 
they  did  not  appear,  so  I  went  to  the  barn  about 
two  hours  ago.  Fortunately  I  did  not  whistle,  but 
went  directly  up  to  them  in  the  loft.  They  ex 
plained  it.  It  seems  that  Kenneth  had  observed  a 
strange  man  moving  stealthily  in  and  out  of  the 
woods,  sometimes  watching  me,  sometimes  the 
house,  and  sometimes  the  barn." 

282 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Oh!"  and  Mary  went  white  from  head  to  foot. 
' '  It  is  one  of  the  sheriff's  men.  Don't  you  think  so  ?' ' 

"I  don't  know.  Kenneth  says  he  got  a  good  look 
at  him  and  that  he  is  sure  he  is  a  stranger  here.  To 
be  plain,  Kenneth  thinks  that  the  sheriff  has  sent 
for  a  detective  and  that  the  detective  may  suspect 
the  thing  we  are  trying  to  hide — 'that  the  boys  are 
not  in  the  West,  but  here  at  home." 

Mary  said  nothing.  The  deepening  pallor  of  her 
face  rendered  it  grim  and  firm,  but  it  was  none  the 
less  beautiful  in  its  unwonted  lines.  He  took  off  the 
saddle,  opened  the  gate,  and  turned  the  horse  into 
the  lot. 

"When  the  boys  hear  the  horse  in  the  stall,"  he 
said,  "they  will  know  you  are  back.  Will  it  be  nec 
essary  for  you  to  go  in  to  them?  I  mean — you  see, 
if  the  fellow  is  still  watching;  in  that  case  he  might 
draw  deductions  from  your  being  there.  While  if 
you  go  on  to  the  house  now — " 

"I  understand,  and  you  are  right,"  Mary  said, 
with  tight  lips.  "No,  I'll  go  to  the  house.  It  is 
awful — awful — awful !" 

He  closed  the  gate  and  walked  by  her  side  till 
they  reached  the  path  leading  down  to  the  field. 
Here  he  turned  to  leave  her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  The  tone  and  words 
carried  an  almost  desperate  appeal  to  him  not  to 
leave  her.  In  her  wonderful  eyes  something  seemed 
to  burn  not  unlike  the  celestial  resignation  of  the 
ancient  saints  before  approaching  torture.  But, 
withal,  she  seemed  to  want  to  lean  on  him  for 
moral  or  physical  support. 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  work,"  he  answered.  "It 
283 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

is  still  not  quite  time  for  supper.  Besides,  from  the 
field  I  can  keep  a  better  watch  on  the  woods  while 
I  appear  to  see  nothing." 

"Well,  well,  you  are  right,"  she  said,  sighing, 
"but  please  don't  be  late,  and  tell  me  if  you  see 
anything." 

As  she  was  nearing  the  house  she  saw  her  father 
returning  home  by  a  small  private  road  which  led 
to  some  of  the  farms  north  of  his  property. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  as  he  joined 
her  at  the  front  gate,  gallantly  opened  it,  and  stood 
aside  for  her  to  enter  before  him. 

"I  went  over  to  see  Tankersley,"  was  his  answer. 
"I  heard  he  had  some  money  he  might  lend,  and — 
well,  I  thought  maybe  I'd  get  it  and  send  it  to  Tobe 
Keith.  But  as  soon  as  the  old  miser  heard  what  I 
wanted  it  for  he  laughed  and  sneered  in  my  face. 
He  was  very  impudent.  His  standard  is  money,  and 
nothing  higher.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  afford  to  get 
angry  with  a  man  so  low  bred,  and  I  came  away." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  thought  of  raising  money 
for  Tobe,"  Mary  said,  wistfully.  "In  fact,  I  thought 
you  would  oppose  my  trying  to  get  it." 

"I  admit  I  did  think  we  ought  not  to  go  that  far 
at  first,"  Rowland  said,  as  they  reached  the  steps 
of  the  veranda,  "but  after  you  left  this  morning 
I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Brown.  He  is  a  most  remark 
able  man  in  many  ways.  He  is  quite  a  philosopher 
and  has  a  wonderful  vocabulary  when  he  gets  to 
talking.  He  swept  everything  away  except  the  fact 
of  Tobe's  life  being  at  stake,  and  the  terrible  conse 
quences  his  death  would  have  on  the — the  future 
state  of  mind  and  ultimate  character  of  the  boys.  I 

284 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

confess  he  set  me  thinking.  He  had  the  courage  to 
scold  me  pretty  sharply,  too,  about — well,  about 
my  inactivity  just  at  this  time.  He  said  I  ought 
to  lay  everything  aside  and  think  more  of  you  and 
my  sons.  He  is  right.  I  don't  know  who  he  is  or 
what  sort  of  ancestors  he  had,  but  he  is  a  man  of 
moral  convictions,  and  I  respect  him.  Helis  a  gentle 
man  at  bottom.  He  has  met  reverses  and  taken  up 
this  mode  of  life  through  necessity.  I  told  him  I 
would  try  to  get  the  money  from  old  Tankersley, 
and  he  seemed  glad  when  I  went  away  for  that 
purpose." 

They  were  on  the  veranda  now.  Mary  could  think 
only  of  the  strange  man  who  had  been  seen  about 
the  premises,  and  she  was  trying  to  make  up  her 
mind  as  to  whether  it  would  be  3xpedient  to  men 
tion  it  to  her  father  when  she  saw  him  looking  down 
the  road  toward  the  village. 

"That  is  Albert's  horse,"  he  said.  "Yes,  he  is 
headed  this  way.  That  means  that  he  will  stay  all 
night  again.  I  think  I  could  get  that  money  from 
him,  but  I  don't  want  to  ask  for  more  right  now. 
He  has  done  as  much  as  I  could  expect  already.  No, 
I'll  not  ask  him  for  it.  Besides,  of  all  the  discourtesy 
known,  to  borrow  money  from  a  guest  seems  to  me 
to  be  the  worst.  He  seems  worried  over  what  you 
intend  to  do  in  his  case,"  and  Rowland  was  smiling 
pointedly.  "He  says  you  won't  say  one  thing  or 
another  positively.  He  seemed  to  be  hinting  the 
other  day  that  he'd  like  for  me  to  take  a  hand  in  it, 
but  I'll  never  do  that.  You  must  be  your  own  judge. 
He  is  away  beneath  you  in  the  matter  of  birth,  but — " 

"Father,"  Mary  suddenly  broke  in,  "you  have 
285 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

not  let  him  know  that  the  boys  are  in  the  barn,  have 
you?" 

"No,  I  never  let  on  about  that,"  Rowland  said, 
wearily,  his  eyes  on  the  approaching  horse  and  buggy. 
^'1  promised  you  I  wouldn't,  and,  while  I  saw  no 
reason — " 

"He  mustn't  know;  he  mustn't  know!"  Mary 
broke  in  again.  "I  can't  tell  you  now  why,  but  he 
mustn't  know  that.  He  must  not  put  up  his  horse, 
either,  unless  the  boys  are  warned.  It  is  getting 
dark  and  they  may  not  see  him  coming.  But  keep 
him  here,  chat  with  him,  and  I'll  slip  to  the  barn 
by  the  back  way  and  warn  the  boys." 

"Well,  I'll  do  that,"  Rowland  promised,  "but 
hurry  on  back.  I  can't  entertain  him.  He  comes  to 
see  you,  not  me.  He  is  daft  about  you — actually 
crazy.  He'd  give  his  right  arm  to  have  you  agree 
to—" 

But  Mary  had  vanished  into  the  hall  and  with 
lowered  head  was  scudding  through  the  shrubbery 
to  the  barn.  The  buggy  was  stopping  at  the  gate, 
and  Rowland  went  down  the  walk  with  a  stately 
step  to  meet  the  incongruous  suitor  for  the  hand  of 
his  daughter. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  his  corn-field,  Charles  took  up  his  hoe  and  set 
to  work.  Now  and  then  his  eyes  furtively  swept 
the  thicket  on  the  hillside  where  Kenneth  had  seen 
the  lurking  stranger.  Something  seemed  to  tell 
Charles  that  the  man  was  still  in  the  neighborhood 
and  was  only  waiting  for  the  darkness  to  veil  his 
further  operations.  He  heard  the  sound  of  Frazier's 
horse  on  the  road  and  saw  Mary  slip  from  a  rear 
door  of  the  house  and  steal  rapidly  down  to  the  barn, 
but  he  did  not  understand  what  it  meant.  It  became 
plain  a  moment  later  when  Mary  was  seen  hurrying 
back  and  the  sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels  at  the  gate 
had  ceased.  That  it  was  Frazier  making  another 
call  he  did  not  doubt,  and  a  sense  of  helpless  dis 
content  descended  upon  him,  seeming  to  gather 
weight  and  substance  from  the  very  thickening 
darkness,  and  disconsolate  voice  from  the  dismal 
croaking  of  the  frogs  in  the  near-by  marshes.  Fire 
flies  were  flitting  over  the  corn  and  about  the  shrub 
bery  bordering  the  walk  to  the  house.  Charles 
now  gazed  more  frequently  and  keenly  toward  the 
thicket.  It  was  growing  so  dark  that  he  felt  that 
his  pretense  at  working  could  not  be  kept  up  longer 
without  exciting  undue  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  the 
possible  observer.  He  had  decided  to  stop,  when 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

something  among  the  branches  of  the  young  trees 
on  the  hillside  caught  his  eye.  To  his  astonishment 
he  saw  the  vague  outlines  of  a  masculine  figure 
emerge,  stand  out  from  the  trees,  and  then  slowly 
advance  toward  him..  That  he  had  been  under  the 
eye  of  this  person  the  greater  part  of  the  day  and 
was  still  being  watched  he  did  not  doubt.  That  the 
man  knew  he  was  there  and  was  coming  toward 
him  for  a  purpose  he  was  sure.  What  could  it  mean 
other  than  that  the  man,  if  he  was  a  detective,  had 
decided  to  reveal  his  purpose  and  seek  an  interview 
from  a  man  so  recently  hired  that  he  ought  to  be  a 
disinterested  witness?  That  must  be  it,  and  Charles 
steeled  himself  for  an  ordeal  he  dreaded  in  many 
ways.  With  his  hoe  on  his  shoulder  he  made  his 
way  between  two  rows  of  corn  toward  the  path 
leading  up  to  the  house.  The  man  was  still  approach 
ing.  He  was  not  a  hundred  feet  away  when,  as 
Charles  was  turning  toward  the  house,  the  stranger 
suddenly  and  softly  coughed. 

"Ahem!"  the  man  cleared  his  throat,  coughed 
again,  and  waved  his  hand.  Charles  turned  quite 
around  and  stood  hesitating. 

"Wait!  Please  don't  go  yet,  sir,"  a  strangely 
familiar  voice  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  urgent  tone. 
"I  must  see  you." 

"Great  God!  Mike,  is  it  you?"  Charles  lowered 
his  hoe  and  stood  peering  through  the  gloom. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is  me,  Mr.  Charles,"  was  the  falter 
ing  reply.  "I  hope  you  won't  be  angry,  but  I  felt 
that  I  must  see  you.  I  waited  till  night,  thinking 
it  would  please  you  for  me  to  do  so." 

"My  God!  Mike!"  was  all  Charles  could  say, 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

as    he    reached    out    his    hand    and    dropped    his 
hoe. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I  haven't 
the  right  to  do  all  this,  considering  your  wishes,  sir, 
but  I  couldn't  keep  from  it,  sir.  I  saw  you  about  a 
year  ago  in  Madison  Square  in  New  York.  You  were 
with  a  friend,  sir,  and  I  dared  not  address  you  then, 
so  I  followed  you  and  him." 

"My  Lord!  You  were  that  fellow!"  Charles 
laughed  out  of  sheer  relief  in  finding  that  his  greater 
fears  were  ungrounded. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I  stood  watch  over  the  house, 
hoping  to  see  you  alone,  but  you  both  got  away  that 
night,  and — " 

"Thank  God!  Mike — I'm  glad — rejoiced  to  see 
you!"  and  Charles  affectionately  wrung  the  hand 
that  was  in  his.  "How  are  the  people  at  home?" 

"All  well,  sir — your  brother,  the  missus  and  the 
little  girl.  She  is  always  asking  about  you — can't 
seem  to  understand  like — like — well,  like  the  others." 

"I  see,"  and  a  sudden  chill  passed  over  Charles 
at  the  thought  now  in  his  mind.  "But,  Mike,  how 
did  you  happen  to  locate  me?  Surely  they  don't 
know  at  home  that  I  am  down  here." 

"Oh  no,  sir!    That  was  just  my  discovery,  sir." 

"Your  discovery?" 

"Yes.  You  see,  I've  been  making  rather  frequent 
trips  to  New  York  to  see  my  mother,  and  when  I 
was  there  I  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  you.  You 
see,  I  didn't  then  know  but  what  you  and  your 
friend  might  return  from  New  Jersey  and  be  hiding 
somewhere  in  New  York.  So  a  short  time  ago,  sir, 
happening  to  be  in  Washington  Square,  who  should 

289 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  see  but  a  man  who  looked  so  much  like  your  friend 
that  I  determined  to  get  a  closer  view.  It  turned 
out  to  be  Mr.  Mason,  sir;  but  we  were  playing  at 
cross-purposes,  Mr.  Charles,  for  he  thought  I  was  a 
plain-clothes  detective.  He  had  spotted  me  that 
time  a  year  ago  in  Madison  Square  and,  sir,  your 
friend — he  will  do  to  trust — he  shut  up  like  a  clam. 
He  lied  like  a  good  fellow,  sir.  I  don't  know  what 
he  didn't  tell  me  with  as  straight  a  face  as  a  parson 
at  a  funeral.  We  had  it  up  and  down,  sir,  for  quite 
a  while,  and  him  thinking  every  minute  that  I  would 
show  my  badge,  whistle  for  help,  and  take  him  in 
as  a  witness  against  you.  Presently,  however,  he 
seemed  to  get  tired  of  the  tack  we  were  on  and  made 
a  bluff,  sir.  He  got  up  and  just  as  good  as  told  me 
to  mind  my  own  business.  He  walked  off,  madlike, 
in  a  huff,  as  if  he  had  had  enough  of  me.  But  I 
couldn't  let  him  depart  so,  Mr.  Charles.  I  went 
after  him  again,  and  then  he  came  back  and  we  had 
it  out.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  I  finally  con 
vinced  him  that  I  was  your  friend,  sir.  In  fact,  he 
said  that  you  had  honored  me  by  mentioning  me 
to  him.  It  was  the  money,  however,  I  think,  that 
clinched  the  matter." 

"Money?  Mason  didn't  accept  money  from  you, 
did  he?"  Charles  asked,  in  bewilderment. 

' '  Oh  no,  sir !  He  is  the  soul  of  honor,  Mr.  Charles ! 
I  mean  the  money  I  owe  you  and  which  I  told  him 
I  had  then  in  the  bank  to  pay  you.  He  said  you 
were — I  think  he  said  'strapped,'  sir,  down  here  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Carlin,  and  he  was  sure  you 
needed  the  cash,  as  you  were  so  hard  up  that  you 
were  going  to  work  on  a  farm.  And  this  is  the  way 

290 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

I  find  you,  sir,  dressed  like  a  common  laborer.- 
Thank  God,  I've  got  the  money,  Mr.  Charles.  Here 
it  is  in  a  roll.  It  is  burning  a  hole  in  my  pocket, 
sir.  You  ought  not  to  have  left  Boston  without  it." 

Charles's  heart  bounded  at  the  sight  of  the  money 
Michael  was  now  extending  toward  him.  He  took 
it.  He  fondled  it.  His  eyes  beamed  through  the 
dusk.  "Oh,  Mike,"  he  cried.  "You  can  never  im 
agine  how  much  I  am  in  need  of  this.  I  wouldn't 
take  it  from  you,  but  I  really  must,  for  it  is  going 
to  help  a  sweet,  beautiful  girl  out  of  serious  trouble. 
I'll  tell  you  about  her  later.  She  is  the  daughter  of 
the  gentleman  for  whom  I  am  working." 

"Was  she  the  young  lady  who  came  on  a  horse 
and  whom  you  assisted  at  the  barn,  sir?" 

"Yes.    Did  you  see  her,  Mike?" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  a  good  look  I  had,  too,  sir,  for  I 
was  hidden  behind  some  thick  bushes  only  twenty 
yards  from  where  you  and  she  stood  with  the  horse, 
Oh,  she  is  indeed  beautiful,  sir,  and  must  have  a 
fine  character.  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  think  I  under 
stand.  You  could  not  keep  from — from — no  nat 
ural  man  full  of  young  blood  could  keep  from — 
admiring  her.  Ah,  sir,  I  congratulate  you.  I  see 
now  that  maybe  you  need  not  be  so — so  lonely  and 
unhappy  in  your  new  life." 

"There  is  nothing  between  us,  and  never  can  be, 
Mike,"  Charles  sighed.  "You  know  of  the  cloud 
hanging  over  me.  That  will  forever  prevent  my 
marrying.  This  is  a  fine  old  aristocratic  family, 
Mike.  But,  Mike,  this  money  may  save  her  from 
a  marriage  that  is  repulsive  to  her.  It  will  have 
to  be  used  secretly.  I  mustn't  be  known  in  it." 

291 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"You  don't  mean,  sir,  that  you  are  giving  the — • 
the  money  away  as  soon  as  you  get  it?  Ah,  that  is 
like  you,  Mr.  Charles!  You  are  never  thinking  of 
yourself — always  of  others,  as  you  did  in  my  case 
and  many  others.  But  I  had  hoped — when  Mr. 
Mason  told  me  of  your  condition  down  here — I  had 
hoped  that  the  money  would  come  in  handy  to — " 

"It  is  worth  my  life  to  me,"  Charles  interrupted, 
grasping  the  hand  of  his  companion  and  pressing  it 
fervently.  "I  would  have  given  my  right  arm  to 
have  gotten  it  anywhere  for  her  use." 

"Then  it  really  is  love,  sir,"  Michael  opined, 
simply.  "And  considering  what  I've  seen  of  the 
lady,  I  can  imagine  how  you  feel  under  the  fear,  sir, 
of  her  going  to  some  one  else  who  is  unworthy  of 
her.  Yes,  I'll  have  to  be  satisfied." 

At  this  point  the  bell  at  the  kitchen  door  clanged. 
"It  is  for  me,  Mike,"  Charles  explained.  "I'm  late 
for  supper  and  must  go  now.  But  I  must  see  you 
to-night.  Are  you  stopping  at  Carlin?" 

"Yes,  sir,  at  that  remarkable  inn.  It  was  there, 
from  that  talkative  clerk,  sir,  that  I  learned  of  a 
circus  man  being  employed  on  this  place." 

"Well,  go  back  now,  Mike,  and  I'll  be  in  to  see 
you  to-night.  It  may  be  as  late  as  eleven  o'clock, 
but  I'll  not  fail.  Wait  up  for  me.  There  are  many 
things  to  be  inquired  about,  but  first  that  other  busi 
ness  must  be  attended  to." 

"About  the  young  lady,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  be  there,  Mr.  Charles,  and  I'll  be  guarded  in 
my  conduct,  you  may  be  sure.  I'll  get  directions 
from  you  later.  Come  straight  to  my  room,  sir." 

292 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"One  other  question,  Mike,  before  you  go." 
Charles  lowered  the  hoe  which  he  had  put  on  his 
shoulder  and  leaned  on  it. 

"Did  the — the  thing  I  did  at  the  bank  harm  my 
brother  financially?  Is  he  still  employed  there? 
You  see,  I  was  afraid  that,  on  my  account — " 

"Oh,  that  is  all  over  with,  sir.  Your  brother,  if 
any  tiling,  stands  higher  than  ever.  You  see,  that 
was  due  to  your  uncle  James." 

"To  Uncle  James!" 

"Yes,  sir.  You  know  he  came  home  from  Europe 
very  soon  after  you  left.  He  took  a  high  hand  at 
the  bank — bought  up  all  the  floating  stock  and 
only  recently  was  made  the  president.  I  have  hoped, 
sir,  that,  that  being  the  case,  the  charges  against 
you  would  be  dismissed.  You  see,  I  know,  Mr. 
Charles,  and  they  must  know,  that  you  were  un 
conscious  of  what  you  were  doing.  I  myself  have 
seen  you,  sir,  when  you  were  in  a  condition  that — 

"Well,  never  mind  that,"  and  Charles  seemed  to 
shrink  within  himself,  shouldered  his  hoe,  and 
turned .  ' '  We'll  talk  it  all  over  at  the  hotel  to-night . ' ' 

On  reaching  the  house  he  found  that  the  family 
and  the  guest  had  already  supped.  He  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  sat  in  his  accustomed  place. 
He  heard  voices  from  the  veranda,  and  knew  that 
Mary,  her  father,  and  Frazier  were  seated  there. 
Aunt  Zilla  brought  his  supper,  and  he  apologized 
for  his  delay. 

"Dat's  all  right,  Mr.  Brown.  She  smiled  sig 
nificantly.  "Young  Miss  done  tol*  me  dat  you  was 
doin'  er  favor  fer  'er.  You  could  stay  till  daybreak, 
fer  all  I  care — she  is  in  so  much  trouble.  My  Gawd ! 

293 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ef  you  des  could  'a'  looked  at  'er  while  she  was 
settin'  eatin'  'side  dat  low  rapscallion  ter-night,  you'd 
'a'  pitied  'er  like  I  done  do.  I  could  'a'  poured  de 
scaldin'  coffee  down  his  thick  bull  neck  fum  behind 
when  I  fetched  it  in.  Why,  you  kin  tell  fum  de  looks 
of  'im  dat  his  money  is  all  he  got!  Huh!  I  say!" 

She  vanished  through  the  door  of  her  sanctum, 
letting  it  shut  with  a  bang  that  shook  the  wooden 
partition. 

Presently  Chanes  was  conscious  of  the  entry  into 
the  room  of  some  one  whose  step  was  soundless. 
It  was  Mary.  She  fairly  crept  into  the  circle  of 
lamplight  from  the  unlighted  hall  and  sitting-room. 
Sinking  into  the  chair  next  to  his,  she  whispered: 

"I  slipped  away.  I  had  to.  I  couldn't  wait  to 
know.  Did  you  find  out  what — who — " 

She  was  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  he  smiled  re 
assuringly.  "It  was  all  a  mistake.  The  man  Ken 
neth  saw  was  looking  for  me.  He  is  an  old  friend 
from  up  North,  and  a  trusty  one.  He  acted  oddly, 
but — but  he  is  rather  eccentric,  and  he  was  somewhat 
afraid  that  I  might  not  want  to  see  him." 

"Oh!  then  it  wasn't  a  detective?" 

' '  No,  only  an  old  friend  of  mine  whom  I  have  not 
seen  for  some  time.  I'm  sorry  it  caused  you  such  a 
fright." 

"That  doesn't  matter."  Mary  rose,  her  eyes  on 
the  door  leading  to  the  veranda.  She  stood  as  if 
listening.  The  alternate  mumbling  of  two  mascu 
line  voices  came  in  on  the  sultry  air.  She  sighed, 
looked  down  at  Charles,  and  he  saw  that  the  light 
of  relief  which  had  illumined  her  face  had  already 
died  down. 

294 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"That  is  out  of  the  way,"  she  whispered,  as  if  to 
herself  in  part,  "but  something  almost  as  bad  has 
come." 

"You  mean — ?"  He  stood  up  to  keep  her  com 
pany,  and  saw  her  sweep  her  eyes  furtively  toward 
the  door  again. 

She  nodded  as  if  he  had  finished  a  remark  that 
she  fully  understood.  "Albert  says  that  the  doc 
tors  held  another  consultation  just  before  he  left 
Carlin  this  afternoon.  They  decided  that  Tobe 
must  be  removed  to-morrow  night  at  the  latest. 
He  came  to  tell  me  and  to  drive  me  to  town  with 
him  in  the  morning." 

"And  you  are  going  to — allow  him  to  furnish  the 
money?" 

She  nodded  again,  her  face  averted.  "I've  tried 
everywhere,  and  so  has  father.  This  is  no  time  for 
sentiment.  I  shall  do  my  duty." 

There  was  a  sound  of  steps  approaching  through 
the  hall.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  careless, 
blustering  stride.  With  a  startled,  almost  frightened 
expression,  Mary  whirled  toward  the  kitchen  and 
disappeared  just  as  Frazier  entered  the  sitting-room. 
An  instant  later  and  Frazier  would  have  seen  the 
two  together. 

"I  was  looking  for  Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  and  he 
glowered  on  Charles,  who  had  resumed  his  chair 
and  taken  up  his  knife  and  fork.  Charles  thought 
with  lightning  swiftness.  He  did  not  want  to  give 
the  man  the  slightest  information,  so  with  a  steady, 
contemptuous  stare  he  simply  made  no  answer. 

His  manner  and  silence  fairly  stunned  Frazier, 
who,  in  default  of  anything  else  to  do,  simply  glared 
20  295 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  back  toward 
the  veranda.  Charles  was  glad  he  had  taken  the 
course  he  did,  the  next  moment,  for  he  heard  Mary's 
voice  on  the  veranda  speaking  to  her  father.  She 
had  slipped  out  at  the  kitchen  door  and  had  hastily 
made  her  way  over  the  grass  back  to  the  front. 

Charles  finished  his  supper  and,  having  nothing 
just  then  to  do,  he  started  up  to  his  room.  He  in 
tended  to  go  to  the  village  as  soon  as  he  could  leave 
the  house  unnoticed,  and  that  meant  waiting  till 
the  family  and  the  guest  had  retired.  As  he  was 
ascending  the  stairs  he  heard  the  angry  voice  of 
Frazier  raised  above  a  normal  tone. 

"He  simply  glared  at  me  when  I  spoke,  sneered 
and  didn't  open  his  lips.  Now  I  tell  you  that  if  it 
hadn't  been  here  in  your  house,  Mr.  Rowland,  I'd 
have  given  him  a  licking  that  he  would  remember  all 
his  life — a  common,  roustabout  circus  tramp  acting 
in  such  a  high  and  mighty  way  with  me!" 

Charles  heard  Rowland's  faint  voice  in  response, 
but  failed  to  catch  his  words.  It  was  ten  o'clock 
before  he  heard  the  others  go  to  their  rooms,  and  he 
waited  half  an  hour  afterward  before  stealing  down 
the  stairs  and  starting  on  his  walk  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

following  morning  Charles  went  to  his  work 
••-  after  breakfasting  alone.  Aunt  Zilla  said  the 
others  were  not  yet  up.  From  his  corn-field  he  saw 
Frazier  lead  his  horse  up  to  the  gate  and  hitch  it 
to  his  buggy,  which  had  been  left  there.  Presently 
Mary  came  out,  and  was  assisted  into  the  vehicle. 
Frazier  attentively  tucked  the  lap-robe  about  her 
feet,  waved  a  parting  hand  to  Rowland  at  the  gate, 
and  they  drove  away.  The  buggy  seat  was  a  narrow 
one  and  the  couple  had  to  sit  close  together.  Frazier, 
in  a  very  loutish  way,  had  dropped  his  right  foot 
over  the  edge  of  the  buggy,  and  it  was  swinging  to 
and  fro  close  to  the  wheels,  like  a  pendulum. 

' '  I  want  to  warn  you  and  your  father  both  against 
that  fellow,"  he  was  saying  to  the  thought -immersed 
girl,  who,  pale  and  rigid,  sat  by  his  side.  "I  am  sure 
there  is  something  crooked  about  him.  He  has  all 
the  earmarks  of  a  suspicious  character.  I  have 
helped  my  brother  in  several  detective  cases  and  I 
never  saw  a  man  I  suspected  more.  It  is  not  all 
groundless,  either,  little  girl.  You  see,  the  last  time 
I  was  here  to  stay  all  night  I  heard  him  coming  in 
away  after  midnight,  slipping  up  the  stairs  with  his 
shoes  in  his  hand,  and  this  morning  between  two 
and  three  he  did  the  same  thing.  The  first  time  I 

297 


stopped  him  with  my  gun  in  my  hand,  but  this 
morning  I  let  him  pass.  I  intend  to  give  him  plenty 
of  rope  and  watch  him.  Some  suspicious  characters 
were  connected  with  the  circus  he  left,  and  my  frank 
opinion  is  that  this  Brown  dropped  off  here,  and  is 
working  on  your  place  merely  as  a  blind  to  cover 
up  some  shady  game." 

"You  say  you  heard  him  come  in  this  morning 
between  two  and  three?"  Mary  said,  wonderingly. 
"Are  you  not  mistaken?" 

"No.  The  truth  is  I  thought  I  heard  him  go  out 
about  eleven,  but  was  not  sure,  so  I  left  my  door 
slightly  ajar.  I  am  a  light*"  sleeper  when  I  want  to 
be,  and  I  heard  him  at  the  front  door  and  watched 
him  creep  up  the  stairs  without  his  shoes  again. 
A  fellow  like  that  may  stare  at  me  and  not  answer 
a  decent  question,  but  it  won't  pay  him.  He  doesn't 
know  who  he  is  fooling  with." 

Mary  said  nothing.  She  was  wondering  what 
could  have  taken  Charles  out  at  that  hour.  Finally 
she  thought  of  the  old  friend  he  had  mentioned 
and  decided  his  going  out  must  have  been  connected 
with  him.  But — again  she  found  herself  perplexed 
— why  had  the  "old  friend"  acted  so  strangely  the 
preceding  day?  Why  had  he  hidden  in  the  thicket 
for  so  many  hours  before  approaching  Charles, 
and  why  had  he  waited  for  the  darkness  to  fall 
before  accomplishing  his  purpose?  It  was  queer, 
very  queer,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  she  doubt 
that  all  was  as  it  should  be.  She  found  herself  act 
ually  too  miserable  to  attempt  a  defense  of  Charles 
against  Frazier's  insinuations.  After  all,  what  could 
be  of  importance  beyond  the  object  of  her  mission 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  the  village  that  morning?  Frazier  had  said  that 
he  would  go  to  the  bank  as  soon  as  they  reached 
Carlin  and  get  the  necessary  money.  Whether  the 
life  of  the  wounded  man  might  be  saved  was  very 
doubtful  at  best,  but  one  thing  seemed  settled  be 
yond  recall,  and  that  was  her  marriage  to  the  man 
by  her  side.  Could  it  be  possible?  she  kept  asking 
herself,  to  the  thudding  accompaniment  of  the 
horse's  hoofs;  yes,  yes,  it  was  now  inevitable.  She 
was  glad,  vaguely  glad,  that  Frazier  forebore  men 
tioning  the  subject  during  the  drive.  He  evidently 
felt  that  after  the  price  had  been  paid  she  would  be 
ready  to  complete  the  bargain.  She  was  beginning 
to  feel  herself  a  slave,  but  she  was  a  haughty,  un- 
cringing  one,  and  well  knew  the  value  of  what  she 
was  giving. 

They  were  entering  the  village.  He  told  her  it 
was  nine  o'clock  and  the  bank  would  be  open  for 
business.  He  could,  by  going  only  a  short  distance 
out  of  his  way,  drop  her  at  Keith's  house.  How- 
would  she  like  to  stop  and  tell  Tobe  the  good  news 
while  he  went  on  to  the  bank  for  the  money? 

It  was  just  what  she  desired,  for  she  shrank  from 
being  seen  at  the  bank  on  such  business.  The  presi 
dent,  at  least,  would  understand  and  make  mental, 
if  not  open,  comments.  So  at  the  gate  of  the  cottage 
Frazier  left  her,  promising  to  come  back  very  soon. 

No  one  was  in  sight  about  the  place,  though  the 
front  door  was  open,  and  as  she  entered  the  gate 
she  heard  the  grinding  tread  of  thick-shod  feet  on 
the  boards  of  the  floor  within. 

The  buggy  was  disappearing  down  the  street  as 
she  timidly  reached  the  door.  She  stood  there  a 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

moment,  and  then  summoned  up  the  courage  to  rap 
on  the  lintel. 

"Go  see  who  it  is,  Ma,"  she  heard  Tobe  say. 
"Maybe  they  are  here  already." 

Then  Mrs.  Keith  appeared.  Her  facial  expres 
sion  was  more  cheerful  than  it  was  the  day  before, 
her  form  more  erect  and  confident.  She  was  even 
courteous  in  her  unlettered  way. 

' '  Come  in,  come  in, ' '  she  said,  smiling.  ' '  Tobe,  it  is 
Miss  Mary.  He  is  daft  about  you,  Miss  Mary; 
he  hasn't  talked  about  a  thing  since  you  left  but 
the  sweet  way  you  acted  and  spoke  yesterday.  He 
has  a  lot  to  tell  you,  but  I  reckon  you  have  heard 
by  this  time.  News  spreads  like  fire  in  dry  broom- 
sedge  in  a  little  place  like  this." 

"I  have  heard  nothing  new,"  Mary  answered, 
wonderingly. 

"You  say  you  haven't?  Well,  everybody  else  has, 
here  in  town,  I'll  bet  a  horse.  Tobe,  she  hain't 
heard.  You  tell  her.  He  can  do  it  to  the  queen's 
taste."  Mrs.  Keith  laughed  in  a  chuckling  way. 

"You  can't  fool  me  with  that  prim  look  of  yours, 
Miss  Mary,"  the  wounded  man  said,  smiling  wanly 
from  his  pillow,  as  Mary  bent  over  him.  "You 
know  all  about  it.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  think 
that  two  big  things  would  just  happen  together  like 
you  being  here  yesterday  and  that  other  piling  in  so 
quick  afterwards." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'that  other '  ?"  Mary  asked, 
in  groping  surprise. 

"Listen,  Ma,  listen  at  her!"  Tobe  laughed.  "You 
know  women  better  'n  I  do.  Ain't  she  just  making 
out?" 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"She  looks  to  me  like  she's  really  puzzled,"  Mrs. 
Keith  answered.  "The  truth  is,  Miss  Mary,  the 
money  for  the  Atlanta  trip  was  sent  last  night,  an' 
we  don't  know  who  it  come  from;  but  Tobe  de 
clares  you  are  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"I  believe  it,  and  nothing  won't  shake  me  from 
it,"  Tobe  insisted,  still  smiling  confidently. 

"You  say — you  say  that  you  got  the  money!" 
Mary  fairly  gasped  in  surprise. 

"Not  only  that,  but  a  cool  hundred  over  the 
amount, ' '  Tobe  went  on.  ' '  You'd  as  well  get  off  your 
high  perch,  Miss  Mary  Rowland.  You  see,  I've  got 
evidence." 

' '  Evidence !  I  don't  understand. ' '  Mary  was  truly 
bewildered. 

"Yes.  I  had  no  sooner  mentioned  it  to  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett  this  morning  than  she  told  about  how  you  was 
riding  from  place  to  place  to  borrow  the  money.  I 
can  put  two  and  two  together  easy  enough.  You 
simply  got  the  money  and  are  trying  to  keep  from 
being  known  in  it,  that's  all." 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Tobe,  I  know  nothing  about 
it,"  Mary  answered,  her  head  hanging  in  embarrass 
ment.  "I  confess  I  did  try  to  get  the  money,  and — 
and  I  intended  to  try  again  to-day.  Of  course,  I'm 
glad  it  has  come." 

"I  believe  she  is  in  earnest,  Tobe,"  Mrs.  Keith 
said,  her  gaunt  hands  clutching  the  foot  of  the  bed 
stead.  "Well,  it  is  awfully  strange,  Miss  Mary.  It 
happened  like  this.  I  was  up  with  Tobe  to  give  him 
his  fever  mixture  about  two  o'clock  this  morning, 
when  down  the  street,  alongside  Mrs.  Bartlett's 
picket  fence,  I  saw  two  men  coming.  It  looked  like 

301 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

one  was  trying  to  persuade  the  other  to  do  something 
that  he  didn't  exactly  want  to  tackle,  an'  my  first 
thought  was  that  they  were  niggers  trying  to  rob 
some  hen-roost.  But  while  I  was  watching,  sorter 
scrouched  down  on  the  door-sill,  so  as  not  to  be  seen, 
the  two  men  come  on  to  our  gate  and  halted.  Then 
in  the  starlight,  that  was  pretty  bright,  I  saw  they 
was  white  men.  I  was  still,  an'  so  was  they  for  a 
minute ;  then  I  heard  one  of  them  say,  sorter  peevish- 
like:  'Go  on.  Knock  at  the  door,  an'  when  some 
body  comes  out  hand  it  to  'em  and  say  what  I  told 
you  to  say.  That  ain't  hard  to  remember.  Nobody 
won't  hurt  you." 

Tobe  laughed  merrily  from  his  bed.  '"Fraid  he'd 
get  shot,  I  reckon.  Think  o'  that,  Miss  Mary — 
afraid  he'd  have  somebody  pull  down  on  him  when 
he  was  out  to  do  a  kind  deed  like  that !" 

Mrs.  Keith's  smile  blended  into  her  son's  mood, 
and  she  went  on: 

"The  feller  that  was  doing  the  ordering  opened 
the  gate  an'  sorter  shoved  the  other  one  in  and  stayed 
back  behind  hisse'f.  On  come  the  other  one  then, 
and  found  me  settin'  on  the  door-sill.  It  seemed  to 
scare  the  very  wits  out  of  'im,  for  at  the  sudden 
sight  of  me  rising  from  my  seat  he  made  a  gruntin' 
sound,  and  would  have  bolted  outright  if  I  hadn't 
halted  'im.  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  For  a 
minute  he  was  tongue-tied  and  then  he  hauled  out 
something  that  I  took  for  a  gun  at  first,  but  which 
was  a  big  fat  roll  o'  Uncle  Sam's  currency  wrapped 
in  tissue-paper. 

"'It's  a  present  from  a  friend  an'  well-wisher  of 
the  young  man  that  was  hurt.  He  hopes  he  will 

302 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

use  it  and  get  well.'  That  was  all  he  said  or  would 
say.  He  had  a  sort  o'  Irish  twist  to  his  tongue,  I 
should  say,  and  he  had  on  a  nice  suit  of  dark-gray 
clothes.  He  was  a  plumb  stranger  in  this  place,  it 
seemed  to  me.  I  know  I  never  laid  eyes  on  him  be 
fore.  Well,  sir,  he  just  bolted,  an'  him  an'  the  other 
feller  made  off  towards  the  square  at  a  lively  gait. 
I  didn't  then  know  what  was  in  the  roll,  for  I  had 
only  the  feel  of  my  fingers  to  guide  me,  but  you  bet 
I  hustled  in  and  turned  up  the  lamp.  You  can't 
imagine  my  astonishment.  I  was  so  crazy  that  I 
could  not  count  the  stuff.  Tobe  was  asleep,  and  thar 
I  stood  at  that  center- table  with  all  that  boodle. 
Tobe  woke  up  and  saw  me,  and  I  told  him  as  well  as 
I  could  what  had  happened,  and  me  an'  him  counted 
the  stuff  bill  by  bill — some  tens,  some  twenties,  and 
as  high  up  as  fifties.  Five  hundred  dollars !  I  locked 
the  front  door.  I  wanted  to  bolt  down  the  winders, 
hot  as  the  night  was.  I  thought  about  getting  out 
Tobe's  revolver.  As  I  say,  I  was  plumb  off  my  nut. 
I  knowed  I  ought  not  to  'a'  done  it,  but  I  stayed 
awake  and  let  Tobe  chatter  till  daybreak.  He  was 
in  for  sending  to  the  doctor  an'  letting  him  know 
at  once,  but  we  didn't  till  about  seven  o'clock.  And 
Doctor  Harrison  heated  the  wires  hot  between  here 
and  Atlanta.  It  is  all  ready  fixed  down  there,  and 
our  tickets  bought.  We  are  to  take  the  one-o'clock 
through  express.  The  doctor  is  going  along,  too, 
an'  a  nurse,  just  for  the  trip.  The  doctor  engaged 
the  drawing-room  in  a  sleeping-car,  whar  he  says 
thar  hain't  a  bit  of  jolting,  and  plenty  o'  space  for 
Tobe  to  stretch  out  comfortable.  Four  buck  nig 
gers  from  the  cotton-warehouse  is  coming  to  tote 

3°3 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Tobe  on  a  cot  to  the  train,  and  a  whole  drug-stere 
o'  mixtures  is  going  along.  The  doctor  is  powerful 
pleased,  and  said  we  was  taking  it  just  in  the  nick 
o'  time.  In  fact,  he  said  we  mustn't  be  too  hopeful, 
as  all  depended  on  what  Doctor  Elliot  would  be  able 
to  do  down  thar.  He  said  we  was  too  excited,  for 
one  thing,  an'  that  we  must  calm  ourselves  down — 
that  a  trip  like  this  would  be  hard  enough  on  Tobe, 
anyway.  I  promised  I'd  keep  Tobe  quiet,  but  how 
can  I?  Every  minute  somebody  drops  in  to  find 
out  if  the  tale  going  about  is  so,  and  we  go  over  it 
again." 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  am  exciting  him  now,"  said 
Mary,  as  she  rose.  "I  must  be  going.  I  came  in 
this  morning,  Tobe,  to — to  find  out  how  you  are," 
she  said,  haltingly,  "and  I  am  delighted  to  hear  the 
good  news." 

"I  know  you  are — I  know  that,"  Tobe  answered, 
extending  his  pale  hand.  "I'm  glad  you  come,  Miss 
Mary.  Coming  like  you  have  has  wiped  out  all 
hard  feeling  between  me  and  your  brothers.  If  I 
get  well  I'll  do  my  level  best  to  keep  the  thing  out 
of  court,  and  if  I  die  I'll  leave  word  that  I  was  as 
much  to  blame  as  the  boys." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

'"PHE  sensation  which  came  over  the  gentle  girl 
A  as  she  went  out  into  the  cool  morning  air  was 
indescribable.  She  felt  almost  as  if  the  balmy 
sunlight  were  some  joy-giving  fluid  to  be  drunk 
like  wine.  Her  step  was  buoyant.  She  told 
herself  that  a  veritable  miracle  had  happened. 
She  could  not  explain  it,  but  it  had  happened. 
Her  unspoken  prayer  constantly  framed  in  heart- 
sinking  desire  had  been  answered.  She  didn't 
want  aid  to  come  from  Albert  Frazier,  and  it  had 
not. 

This  thought  reminded  her  that  she  must  try  to 
see  him  before  he  had  put  himself  to  the  trouble  of 
getting  the  money  at  the  bank.  So  she  hastened 
toward  the  square. 

She  was  soon  entering  the  bank,  and  in  the  little 
vestibule  she  saw  Frazier  in  earnest  conversation 
with  an  employee  of  the  bank.  Frazier's  heavy 
brow  was  clouded  over  as  with  displeasure.  He 
failed  to  note  her  presence  at  first,  and  she  heard 
him  say,  angrily: 

"I  don't  see  any  necessity  of  waiting  for  him.  It 
is  a  mere  matter  of  form,  anyway.  I'm  in  a  hurry 
right  now." 

The  embarrassed  clerk  was  about  to  reply  when 
305 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Frazier  noticed  Mary  and  turned  to  meet  her,  his 
hat  in  hand. 

"I've  been  delayed  by  these  idiots,"  he  said, 
fuming.  "I've  always  had  my  check  honored  with 
out  delay,  but  simply  because  I  overchecked  a  little 
yesterday  they  want  me  to  wait  and  see  the  president. 
Bosh!  I'll  show  them  a  thing  or  two!  We  need 
another  bank  here,  anyway,  and  I'll  get  one  started. 
These  fellows  have  a  monopoly  and  are  getting  en 
tirely  too  particular.  I  suppose  you  got  tired  waiting 
for  me,  and — " 

"No,  it  wasn't  that,"  Mary  corrected  him.  "The 
Keiths  have  already  got  the  money." 

"Got  the  money!"  he  repeated.  He  took  her  arm< 
and  in  almost  benumbed  astonishment  led  her  out 
to  his  buggy  in  front.  She  explained  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  noted  the  slow  look  of  sullen  chagrin 
steal  over  his  face.  "And  you  say  they  don't  know 
who  sent  it?  That  sounds  fishy  to  me.  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing?" 

Mary  was  unable  to  make  an  adequate  reply. 
His  face  was  clouded  over  and  growing  darker  every 
minute. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
this  morning?" 

"I  want  to  call  on  Mrs.  Quinby  at  the  hotel,"  she 
answered.  "I  promised  to  come  the  next  time  I  was 
in  town.  You  mustn't  bother  about  me.  I  shall 
take  dinner  with  her." 

As  she  spoke  Mary  turned  toward  the  hotel, 
and  Frazier  walked  along  with  her,  taking  care  to 
be  on  the  outside  of  the  pavement,  as  was  the 
custom.  The  look  of  disappointed  anger  was  leav- 

306 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ing  his  face  and  a  shrewd  expression  was  taking  its 
place. 

"I'll  be  around  to  take  you  home  after  dinner, 
then,"  he  remarked,  his  glance  failing  to  meet  her 
upturned  eyes.  "The  truth  is,  I  must  see  my  brother 
and  have  a  roundabout  chat  with  him  in  regard 
to  the  boys." 

"In  regard  to  them?"  Mary  said,  in  a  startled 
undertone. 

"Yes.  It  is  like  this,"  he  went  on,  his  shrewd 
expression  deepening.  "Things  are  not  quite  in  as 
good  shape  as  they  were,  little  girl.  I  didn't  intend 
to  tell  you  yet,  but  I  reckon  I  may  as  well.  It  seems 
that  the  grand  jury  has  been  criticizing  my  brother 
in  a  roundabout  way  for  not  making  a  more  thor 
ough  effort  to — to  locate  the  boys,  and  I'm  a  little 
bit  afraid  that  he  may  telegraph  to  Texas  and  make 
inquiry  of  the  man  whose  name  was  signed  to  the 
letter  I  showed  him.  I'll  have  to  watch  him  closely 
and  try  to  prevent  that,  you  know." 

"Oh!"  Mary  muttered,  in  alarm.  "Then  he 
might—" 

"Yes,  if  he  got  on  to  that  trick  he  would  be  furious 
and  maybe  see  through  the  whole  thing — find  out 
about  my  interest  in  you  and  all  the  rest.  He  saw 
me  with  you  the  other  day,  and  I  had  to  pretend 
that  I  was  pumping  you  on  the  sly  to  help  him 
locate  your  brothers.  It  went  down,  for  he  is  none 
too  bright,  but  there  is  no  telling  when  he  may  sus 
picion  the  truth  and  then,  you  see,  he  might  take  a 
notion  to  search  the  mountains.  That  would  be 
bad,  wouldn't  it?  But  I'm  going  to  work  hard  to 
day  to  throw  him  off.  If  he  should  happen  to  see 

3°7 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

us  together  I'll  tell  him — you  see,  he  knows  I've 
had  financial  deals  with  your  father — I'll  tell  him 
that  you  came  to  pay  me  some  interest  or  something 
like  that.  As  a  last  resort  I  may — I  don't  say  it 
would  come  to  that — but  as  a  last  resort  I  may  just 
come  out  flat  with  the  truth  and  tell  him,  you  know, 
that  you  are — well,  what  you  are  to  me,  and  throw 
our  case  on  his  mercy.  I  don't  know  how  he  would 
act  about  it,  I'm  sure,  but  he  might,  you  know, 
give  the  boys  a  chance  to — to — " 

He  seemed  unable  to  proceed  further  in  his  crude 
diplomacy,  and  Mary,  blinded  by  terror  to  his  de 
signs,  suppressed  a  deep  sigh,  and  with  tight  fips 
remained  silent.  They  were  now  at  the  entrance  of 
the  hotel. 

"I'll  find  out  all  I  can,"  he  said,  as  he  was  leaving 
her,  "and  will  let  you  know  when  I  come  for  you 
this  afternoon.  By  the  way,  I'll  drive  around  to 
the  rear  door,  and  we  can  go  out  by  the  back  street 
without  passing  through  the  square.  We  have  to  be 
very  careful.  It  is  a  wonder  folks  haven't  got  on 
to  my  trips  out  your  way,  but  they  haven't  so  far, 
it  seems,  and  they  must  not  just  now.  It  might 
upset  things  awfully." 

Mary  went  into  the  office  of  the  hotel.  Sam  Lee 
was  behind  the  counter,  and  came  to  her  quickly. 

"How  d'  do,  Miss  Mary?"  he  cried,  flushing  to 
the  roots  of  his  smoothly  matted  hair,  which  lay 
over  his  eyebrows  like  the  bang  of  a  mountain 
school-girl.  "Mrs.  Quinby  is  out  the  back  way, 
buying  a  load  of  frying-chickens  from  a  farmer.  She 
will  be  in  in  a  minute.  Will  you  wait  here,  or  will  you 
go  up  to  the  parlor?" 

308 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mary  decided  to  go  to  the  parlor,  dreading  the 
entrance  of  some  acquaintance  and  not  being  in  the 
mood  for  greetings  or  conversation.  Sam  accom 
panied  her,  gallantly  opening  the  parlor  door  and 
going  in  to  raise  the  blinds  of  the  shaded  windows. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  as  he  was 
about  to  leave,  "how  did  you  come  out  with  that 
circus  man  I  told  you  about  that  wanted  to  do  farm 
work?" 

"Very  well,"  the  girl  replied. 

"And  he  is  satisfactory?" 

"Yes,  quite,"  Mary  answered. 

"I  was  wondering  how  he  would  suit,"  Lee  pur 
sued,  thoughtfully,  "for  he  seemed  a  sort  of  a  misfit 
to  me.  You  see,  I  meet  all  sorts  of  characters  from 
everywhere,  almost,  and  I'd  never  have  put  him 
down  as  a  good  farm-hand." 

"He  does  very  well,"  Mary  said,  evasively.  "We 
are  entirely  satisfied." 

"Well,  he  is  odd  in  many  ways,"  Lee  continued, 
observantly.  "He  never  comes  in  town  in  the  day 
time,  but  always  at  night,  and  late  at  that.  He  was 
here  last  night  about  midnight.  There  was  a  queer 
chap  here  that  refused  to  register.  I  say  refused, 
but  I  can't  say  he  did  that,  either,  for  he  simply 
paid  for  a  whole  day  in  advance  at  the  transient 
rate  and  was  assigned  a  room.  We  always  require 
a  guest  to  register,  but  he  was  so  busy  asking  ques 
tions  about  the  people  and  the  town  that  I  over 
looked  it.  Well,  if  that  looks  odd,  it  seems  a  little 
more  so  that  your  man  should  come  in  last  night, 
wake  me  up  after  twelve,  and  want  to  see  the  fellow. 
The  funny  part  of  it  was  that  when  I  asked  him  who 

309 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

he  wanted  to  see  he  didn't  know,  or  pretended  that 
he  didn't,  anyway.  He  set  in  to  describe  him — said 
he  had  on  a  dark-gray  sack-suit  and  wore  a  green 
necktie,  and  the  like.  It  was  No.  37  that  he  was 
after,  all  right,  and  I  showed  him  up  to  the  room. 
They  must  have  had  an  appointment,  for  Thirty- 
seven  was  up,  reading  a  paper,  when  I  knocked. 
Then  I  remembered  that  he  had  questioned  me 
about  the  circus  and  the  men  that  dropped  out  here. 
I  remembered  then  that  I  told  him  about  getting 
Brown  a  job  on  your  farm.  It  was  all  odd,  but  I 
run  across  so  many  strange  things  here  in  this  joint 
that  I  have  quit  keeping  track  of  'em.  However — 
now  I  hope  you  will  take  this  as  coming  from  a 
friend,  Miss  Mary  —  I  believe,  if  I  was  you,  and 
in  as  much  trouble  as  you  are  already,  why,  I'd  be 
on  my  guard  with  that  fellow  Brown.  I  heard  the 
sheriff  talking  one  day  to  his  brother  about  the  out 
laws  that  was  with  that  circus,  and  I  must  say, 
while  I  am  not  a  detective  of  the  first  water,  I  think 
for  a  common  hired  hand  your  Mr.  Brown  is  a  mys 
tery.  I  noticed  that  the  two  did  not  shake  hands, 
and  that  looked  as  though  they  had  met  that  day 
before.  They  just  waited  till  I  left,  and  then  the 
man  in  the  gray  suit  closed  the  door.  They  must 
have  stayed  there  an  hour  or  more,  and  then — 
now  comes  the  strange  part — they  come  down, 
passed  through  the  office,  and  went  out  on  the 
square.  They  may  have  been  gone  an  hour  when 
the  fellow  came  back  alone  and  slipped  up  to  his 
room." 

"A  dark-gray  suit !"  Mary  said  to  herself,  recalling 
Mrs.  Keith's  description  of  the  mysterious  visitor 

310 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

at  her  house,  "and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Brown!"  Her 
heart  was  beating  rapidly  now.  She  was  afraid  that 
the  clerk  would  note  the  excitement  which  was  fast 
mastering  her,  and  she  abruptly  changed  the  sub 
ject.  Going  to  the  window,  she  looked  out,  and  then 
said: 

"I  see  Mrs.  Quinby  is  coming  in.  Please  tell  her 
that  I  am  up  here,  but  ask  her  not  to  hurry  on  my 
account." 

"I  will — I'll  do  that,  Miss  Mary,"  said  Lee,  back 
ing  from  the  room,  a  mystified  look  in  his  observant 
eyes.  "Yes,  I'll  tell  her,  and  she  will  be  right  up." 
21 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was  growing  dusk  when  Frazier  ^brought  Mary 
back  to  the  farm.  He  did  not  stop,  having  some 
important  business  to  attend  to  that  evening,  and 
drove  back  to  the  .village.  Mary  was  very  unhappy. 
From  a  window  in  the  parlor  of  the  hotel  she  had 
seen  Tobe  Keith  taken  to  the  train,  and  the  silent 
awe  of  the  bystanders,  the  grave  looks  of  the  doc 
tors,  the  nurse,  and  Mrs.  Keith  in  her  best  dress 
induced  a  feeling  of  vast  depression.  She  had  heard 
people  on  the  pavement  below  saying  that  Keith 
would  never  be  cured — that  no  man  in  his  condition 
could  stand  the  operation  that  was  proposed.  She 
thought,  too,  that  Mrs.  Quinby  had  failed  to  give 
her  much  encouragement.  Indeed,  it  was  almost 
as  if  her  good  friend  were  trying  to  prepare  her  for 
the  worst. 

Finding  no  one  in  sight  about  the  house,  Mary  went 
straight  to  the  barn  to  acquaint  her  brothers  with 
all  that  had  taken  place.  She  tried  to  shake  off  the 
morbid  feeling  which  clung  to  her  so  persistently, 
not  realizing  that  it  was  due  to  the  fact  of  her  still 
being,  in  a  sense,  in  the  power  of  Albert  Frazier. 
It  was  true  that  he  had  not  paid  for  Keith's  expenses, 
but  he  had  managed  to  make  her  feel  her  absolute 
dependence  on  him  for  the  safety  of  her  brothers. 

312 


She  shuddered,  and  fairly  cringed,  under  the  thought 
that  she  had  not  repulsed  him  when  he  had  put  his 
arm  around  her  in  a  secluded  spot  on  the  road 
home  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  The  spot  stung 
now  as  if  it  were  a  wound  which  her  rising  flush  was 
irritating. 

She  had  seen  her  brothers  in  their  loft,  and  was 
entering  the  house,  when  she  met  Charles  descending 
from  his  room. 

"You  are  late,"  he  smiled.  "We  have  had  supper 
already." 

"So  have  I,"  she  answered.  "I  took  it  early  with 
Mrs.  Quinby  at  the  hotel.  We  drove  rapidly,  as 
Mr.  Frazier  had  to  hurry  back  to  town." 

She  sat  down  on  the  veranda,  and  he  stood,  with 
an  unusual  air  of  embarrassment,  quite  near  to  her. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  she  said.  "I  know  you  are 
tired  from  your  work." 

He  obeyed  willingly  enough,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  there  was  a  certain  undefinable  restraint  about 
him.  They  sat  silent  for  several  minutes.  She  was 
watching  his  face  attentively.  At  any  other  time 
she  might  have  been  amused.  Did  he  not  realize 
that  his  failure  to  inquire  about  Tobe  Keith  was 
an  indirect  confession  of  the  part  he  had  played  the 
night  before? 

"Well,  they  took  Tobe  to  Atlanta  to-day,"  she 
suddenly  announced,  still  eying  him  closely. 

"Oh,  did  they?"  he  exclaimed. 

She  said  nothing  for  another  moment.  "I  suppose 
you  think  that  Albert  furnished  the  money?"  she 
continued.  She  smiled  now  at  his  look  of  confusion, 
and  as  he  made  no  reply  she  went  on:  "Well,  he 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

didn't.  When  I  got  to  Mrs.  Keith's  this  morning 
I  learned  that  some  one  else  had  given  her  the  nec 
essary  money.  No  one  knows  from  whom  it  came." 

"That's  strange,"  Charles  said,  feebly. 

"Yes,  it  was  very  strange.  It  seems  that  the  man 
who  brought  it  was  an  absolute  stranger.  He  turned 
it  over  to  Mrs.  Keith,  but  refused  to  say  who  sent 
it.  The  whole  town  is  talking  about  it." 

"Very  strange  indeed,"  Charles  said,  still  awk 
wardly.  "I  hope  the  poor  fellow  will  stand  his 
journey  well." 

"Yes,  sending  money  like  that  was  very  strange," 
Mary  persisted.  "Most  persons  do  their  charity 
differently.  They  blow  a  horn,  sound  a  trumpet, 
or  get  it  into  the  papers ;  but  this  is  genuine  charity. 
However,  it  will  leak  out.  You  can't  keep  things 
like  that  hidden  long." 

"What  do  the  doctors  think — do  they  think  that 
his  chances  are  good  for  recovery?" 

Again  Mary  ignored  his  remark,  smiling  faintly 
through  the  dusk  as  she  watched  his  obvious  floun 
dering.  "No,  a  deed  like  that  is  too  rare  and  fine 
for  the  author  of  it  to  keep  hidden.  Oh,  if  you  could 
have  been  there  with  me  this  morning  and  seen  that 
poor  mother's  face  and  her  son's  as  they  told  about 
how  the  money  came,  you  would  have  felt  like  cry 
ing  for  joy.  I  did.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  broke  down. 
I  think  I  know  now  what  heaven  is  like.  It  is  like 
I  felt  at  that  moment.  They  were  like  two  happy 
children,  and  I  was  happy,  too,  and  grateful." 
Here  Mary  actually  sobbed.  "I  was  grateful  to 
some  unknown  person  who  had  saved  me  from — 
from  the  most  humiliating  thing  that  ever  threatened 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

me.  I  was  willing  to  give  my  life  rather  than  accept 
that  aid  from  Albert  Frazier,  and  it  had  come  in 
that  mysterious  way  like  a  gift  from  God  at  the  very 
last  moment.  You  must  help  me — help  me  find 
out  who  did  it,  Mr.  Brown.  Will  you?" 

He  stared  like  a  man  in  a  bewildered  dream. 
"Yes,  ^res,"  he  stammered,  "I  will,  but  why  bother 
about  it  now,  anyway?" 

' ' '  Bother  about  it ' !  How  can  you  use  such  words  ? 
You  see,  you  are  not  in  my  place.  You  can't  realize 
how  I  feel.  I  want  to  see  him.  I  want  to  look  into 
his  face,  as — as  I  am  looking  into  yours  now,  and 
tell  him  just  how  I  feel  and  what  he  has  done  for 
me.  I  want  to  repay  him.  I  want  to  tell  him  that 
there  is  nothing — nothing  under  high  heaven  I  would 
not  do  for  him.  I  want  him  to  tell  me  what  to  do 
in  all  this  darkness  that  has  gathered  about  me  and 
is  stifling  hope  and  life  out  of  me,  young  as  I  am. 
I  want  to  be  his  faithful  friend  till  the  end  of  time. 
I  want  to  serve  him — to  be  his  slave — anything." 

Charles  rose  to  his  feet  awkwardly.  "I — I  see 
how  you  feel,  Miss  Rowland,"  he  said.  "But  I  am 
afraid  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  duties.  By  the 
way,  your  father  has  gone  over  to  Dodd's.  He  came 
by  the  field  and  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  he  would 
not  be  back  till  about  bedtime." 

Mary  got  up  also.  She  reached  out  and  took 
his  arm  and  walked  with  him  to  the  other  end  of 
the  veranda.  He  felt  her  hand  trembling.  She 
pressed  his  arm  against  her  side.  "You  shall  not 
go  yet!"  she  cried,  passionately.  "I  have  been 
beating  about  the  bush.  I  know  that  you  did  that 
thing.  I've  known  it  all  day.  No  one  else  knows, 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

but  I  do — and  it  has  made  me  so  happy.  I  could 
not  have  taken  it  from  any  one  else,  but  I  want  to 
take  it  from  you.  I  want  to  take  it,  because  I 
know  you  wanted  to  give  it.  I  know  how  you  feel 
about  me,  and  I  want  you  to  know  how  I  feel  about 
you." 

Had  the  heavens  split  above  him,  dropping  flames 
of  celestial  fire,  he  could  not  have  felt  more  ecstatic. 
She  had  suddenly  paused  and  Mted  her  wondrous 
face  to  his.  Her  beautiful  lips  hung  quivering  like 
drooping  flowers.  He  was  a  man  of  remarkable 
restraint,  but  sometimes  acted  under  impulse.  He 
took  her  face  between  his  hands,  he  bent  to  kiss  her 
unresisting  lips;  then  suddenly  he  checked  himself. 
A  picture  of  his  whole  past  flashed  before  him.  He 
was  a  man  with  a  price  on  his  head  and  liable  to 
exposure  at  any  moment.  What  right  had  he  to 
the  heart  of  such  a  girl  as  this — to  win  it  under  her 
father's  kindly  roof  through  the  agency  of  a  just 
act  to  a  suffering  man.  He  dropped  his  hands. 
With  his  face  full  of  deepening  agony  he  simply 
looked  at  her  fixedly  and  remained  mute. 

."What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "You  are 
troubled  about  something;  I  see  it.  I've  known  it 
a  long  time." 

"Miss  Rowland—"  he  began. 

"Miss  Rowland!1'  she  cried,  impatiently.  "Char 
lie — don't  you  see  I  call  you  Charlie!  I  have  called 
you  that  a  hundred  times  to  myself  since  finding 
out  what  you  did:  I  used  it  when  I  prayed  to  you 
— actually  prayed  to  you  this  afternoon  to  forgive 
me  for  allowing  that  man  to  kiss  me  on  the  way 
home." 

316 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"To  kiss  you!"  She  saw  him  start  and  stand 
quivering  under  her  earnest  upward  stare.  She 
saw  him  lower  his  head  as  a  slave  being  scourged 
with  thongs  of  steel — a  slave  who  was  determined  to 
show  no  signs  of  suffering.  "He  kissed  you!  Then 
— then — my  God!  you  are  engaged  to  him!  After 
all,  you  are  engaged  to  him!" 

"No,  not  quite  that!"  she  cried,  in  almost  piteous 
appeal,  "but  I  was  afraid,  from  the  way  he  talked — 
Oh,  Charlie,  you  can't  understand !  It  is  true  that  I 
did  not  have  to  take  his  money  to-day,  but  I  am 
still  at  his  mercy." 

"Still  at  his  mercy!"  Charles  groaned,  his  eyes 
ablaze  with  blended  lights  of  fury  and  despair. 

Falteringly  she  explained  Frazier's  veiled  threats. 
As  she  ended  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders- 
and  again  she  lifted  her  face  to  his.  Again  he  was 
swept  by  the  flames  of  desire;  again  he  held  him 
self  in  check;  again  the  shackles  of  his  hopeless  con 
dition  bit  into  the  flesh  of  his  memory,  sinking  to 
the  very  bones  of  his  consciousness.  What  could  he 
do  ?  He  might  tell  her  of  the  blight  on  his  life  which 
had  isolated  him  from  all  others,  but  what  good 
would  that  do?  And  had  he  not  promised  William 
that  the  truth  should  never  be  known?  No,  his 
fate  was  sealed.  He  had  won  her,  but  he  must  lose 
her.  No  honorable  man  could  ask  such  a  woman 
to  share  such  a  precarious  fate.  She  would  be  less 
unfortunate  even  as  the  wife  of  a  man  like  Frazier. 
Charles  was  a  social  outcast  who  had  crept  into  the 
shelter  of  unsuspecting  hospitality.  One  loophole, 
and  one  only,  flashed  before  his  eyes  on  the  screen 
of  temptation,  and  that  was  to  go  back  to  Boston 

317 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

and  demand  his  moral  rights.  But  that  would  mean 
that  he  was  failing  to  make  good  those  sacred  ob 
ligations.  That  would  mean  the  degradation  of 
William,  and  the  terrible  blight  upon  his  family 
whom  till  now  he  had  saved  from  humiliation  and 
pain.  No,  that  course  would  rouse  condemnation 
even  in  the  heart  of  the  girl  before  him.  Was  there 
anything  she  would  not  do  or  suffer  to  save  her 
brothers?  Could  such  a  selfless  creature  approve 
of  a  man  less  selfless?  Her  wondrous  face,  the  all 
but  visible  halo  about  it,  was  his  answer. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Charlie?''  she  asked.  "Have 
you  lost  respect  for  me  for  allowing  him  to  kiss  me? 
I  could  have  died  when  he  did  it — I  hated  myself 
so,  for  I  was  thinking  of  what  you  would  think  if 
you  knew.  But  I  was  afraid — afraid  of  him.  If  he 
were  to  become  angry  and  turn  against  me,  he 
would  give  my  brothers  up  at  once.  He  would 
lead  in  the  search  for  them,  and  if  he  knew  or  sus 
pected — •" 

"Suspected  what?"  he  interrupted,  as  she  paused 
and  stood  shuddering,  her  eyes  filling  with  shadows. 

"If  he  suspected  that  I— if  he  suspected  how  I 
feel  to  you — he  would  try  to  kill  you.  Already  he  is 
your  enemy,  already  he  suspects  you  of — " 

"Suspects  me  of  what?" 

— of  being  a  fugitive  from  the  law  who  left  the 
circus  to  avoid  being  arrested.  It  is  absurd,  ridicu 
lous  !  Only  such  a  man  as  he  is  would  dream  of  such 
a  thing.  If  ten  thousand  persons  testified  under 
oath  that  such  was  the  case  I'd  not  believe  them." 

"You'd  not  believe  them?"  he  echoed,  and.  he 
hugged  to  himself  his  inherent  right  to  her  faith  in 

318 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

him  as  an  honest  man,  for  dishonest  he  had  never 
been. 

"No,  I'd  not  believe  them.  It  seems  to  me  now 
that  I  believe  only  in  you.  In  all  humanity  I  know 
of  no  one  I  trust  so  much — my  father,  my  brothers, 
even  my  sweet  dead — "  She  hesitated,  then  finished, 
fervently:  "Yes,  even  my  mother.  She  would  for 
give  me  if  she  were  here  and  understood." 

Again  the  infinite  yearning  to  take  her  to  his 
breast  swept  over  him.  He  put  his  arm  about  her; 
he  was  drawing  her  to  him,  when,  with  a  groan  of 
tortured  resolution,  he  released  her.  His  face  was 
white  in  the  dusk  as  he  stood  grimly  silent. 

"I  can't  understand  you,  Charlie,"  she  whis 
pered,  tenderly,  and  yet  in  a  groping,  bewildered 
tone.  "Somehow  I  know — I'm  sure  that  you — love 
me." 

"Oh,  I  do!"  he  said,  quickly,  "but  l  have  no 
right  to  do  so.  I  can't  explain.  It  would  do  no 
good,  anyway.  I  am  bound  by  honor  not  to  reveal 
certain  things,  even  to  you." 

"I  see,  I  see;  now  I  begin  to  understand  a  little," 
she  said,  wistfully.  "And  I  won't  press  you  to  tell 
me,  either.  It  may  be  that  you  are  bound  to  others, 
as  I  am  bound.  Though  I  have  the  sweet  comfort 
of  talking  to  you  about  it.  I  couldn't  bear  it  all 
but  for  you,  but  I  shall  be  braver,  less  complaining, 
from  now  on." 

She  lowered  her  head;  she  stood  back  from  him. 
An  overwhelming  sense  of  losing  her  pressed  down 
on  him  like  a  pall.  He  wondered  if  in  her  mute 
attitude  lay  any  touch  of  womanly  resentment 
against  him  for  the  stand  he  had  taken.  He  held 

3*9 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

out  his  hands  to  her,  but  she  simply  sighed  and  slowly 
shook  her  head. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  tremblingly. 

"It  must  be  as  you  say,"  she  answered.  "I 
wonder  why  God  brought  us  together  like  this.  It 
is  strange — strange — strange !" 

He  could  not  answer.  His  arms  sank  to  his  sides. 
She  turned  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

TIKE  a  sheer  mechanical  thing,  actuated  by  some 
•L'  external  force,  he  went  down  the  steps  and  on 
to  the  lawn.  Standing  near  the  front  gate,  he  saw 
Rowland  coming  down  the  road,  and  stepped  aside 
to  avoid  meeting  him.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  mere 
passing  platitudes  such  as  the  old  man  often  dealt 
with.  Charles  crept  around  the  house  on  the  dewy 
grass,  and  found  himself  in  the  vicinity  of  the  barn. 
Suddenly,  despite  his  own  depression,  he  felt  a  surge 
of  pity  pass  over  him  at  the  thought  of  the  plight 
of  the  two  boys.  They  were  her  brothers,  and  on 
that  account  he  loved  them.  He  wondered  if  they 
were  asleep  already.  Presently,  while  he  stood  look 
ing  at  the  dark,  sloping  roof  of  the  barn,  he  saw  a 
figure  steal  out  from  the  kitchen  door  and  move 
across  the  sward  toward  the  barn.  It  was  Mary. 
She  passed  close  to  him,  but  made  no  sign  of  having 
seen  him.  Again  his  fears  of  having  offended  her 
womanhood  besieged  him.  She  had  said  that  she 
understood  him,  but  she  could  not  know  how  vast 
and  grave  his  obligations  were.  Was  there  any  way 
by  which  he  could  make  them  known  and  still  be 
true  to  his  vow?  He  could  see  none,  and  to  suffer 
under  her  displeasure  might  only  be  another  burden 
to  bear.  He  walked  back  to  the  front  of  the  house. 

321 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

He  saw  Rowland  ascending  the  stairs  with  a  candle 
in  his  hand  on  his  way  to  his  room.  Twenty  minutes 
passed  and  then  he  saw  Mary  returning.  How  it 
was  that  he  had  the  boldness  to  advance  toward 
her  he  could  not  have  explained,  for,  despite  her 
open  admissions  in  regard  to  himself,  he  still  felt 
that  he  was  only  what  he  appeared  to  the  outer 
world  to  be — a  hired  man  of  no  social  standing. 

"I  was  hoping  that  I'd  see  you  again  to-night," 
she  began,  in  an  even  tone.  "I've  just  been  to  see 
my  poor  boys.  Martin  has  a  cold  and  I  am  giving 
him  some  medicine  for  it.  I  wanted  to  make  a  con 
fession  to  you  before  I  went  to  sleep  to-night.  I 
took  the  liberty  of  telling  them  something  which 
you  may  not  want  them  to  know." 

"About  you  and  Frazier?"  he  ventured. 

"No,  no!"  she  answered,  with  a  near  approach  to 
the  sweet  tone  which  she  had  used  on  the  veranda. 
"Have  you  held  that  thought  all  by  yourself  here 
on  the  lawn?  Was  it  that  which  made  you  stand 
like  a  post  as  I  passed  just  now?  No,  I  did  not  men 
tion  his  name.  They  don't  like  him.  They  don't 
want  me  to — to —  I  sha'n't  use  the  word.  I  think 
that  is  why  you  are  so  gloomy  to-night — •  I  mean 
because  I  said  I  was  still  at  his  mercy.  This  is 
what  I  told  the  boys.  I  could  not  help  it.  I  could 
not  keep  it  back.  They  won't  tell,  anyway.  They 
promised,  and  do  you  know  they  would  not  displease 
you  for  anything;  they  admire  you  intensely.  I 
told  them  who  it  was  that  sent  Tobe  Keith  that 
money.  I  was  partly  guessing,  but  I  told  them  that 
you  sent  it,  too,  by  the  friend  who  came  here  to 
see  you  and  caused  them  such  a  fright." 

322 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Charles  could  find  no  words  with  which  to  answer ; 
he  heard  her  laugh  softly  as  she  stepped  close  to 
him  and  put  her  hand  to  his  lapel  and  held  it  as  she 
might  have  done  were  she  pinning  a  flower  upon  it. 

"Your  good  deeds  tie  your  tongue,"  she  said, 
"but  you  can't  lie.  You  would  lie  out  of  this  if  you 
could.  You  tried  to  hide  that  act  of  goodness  by 
what  really  was  a  sly  trick,  but  I  saw  through  it. 
I  saw  through  it  because  I  wanted  it  to  be  that  way." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it,  telling  himself 
that  it  was  a  brief  offense  surely  when  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  give  her  up  forever.  But,  oh,  how 
it  throbbed  and  pleaded  in  his  clasp!  Each  little 
finger  seemed  to  have  a  soul  of  its  own.  He  dared 
not  look  into  her  eyes.  Their  drooping  lashes  seemed 
breakable  bars  between  him  and  a  life  of  eternal  bliss, 

"Are  you  angry  because  I  told  them?"  she  asked. 

"Not  if  it  pleased  you,"  he  said,  passionately. 
"That  is  all  I  live  for — to  please  you." 

"Do  you  mean  it?  Do  you  mean  it,  Charlie?" 
and  she  pressed  his  fingers — his  calloused  fingers — 
in  her  soft  ones.  She  raised  her  face  to  his.  ' '  Oh,  I 
know  you  do,  but  I  am  dying  to  hear  you  say  so." 

He  nodded.  He  took  a  deep,  quivering  breath 
and  slowly  exhaled  it;  she  felt  him  trembling;  his 
face  was  grim  and  pale. 

"I  have  no  right,"  he  said,  "to  talk  to  you  this 
way — to  allow  you  to — to  talk  to  me  in  a  way  that 
would  be  impossible  if  you  knew  my  whole  history." 
He  was  speaking  now  as  a  man  might  just  before 
the  black  cap  was  placed  over  his  face.  "I  ought  not 
to  have  come  here  to  your  father's  house  without — 
•without  telling  him  and  you  the  full  truth.  I  am  a 

323 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

fugitive  from  the  law.  I  can  say  that  much  without 
breaking  my  word  to  others.  At  any  moment  I 
may  be  caught  and  imprisoned.  In  that  case  your 
family  would  be  mentioned  as  harboring  me,  and 
I  had  no  right  to  let  you  unsuspectingly  run  that 
risk." 

"You — you  a  fugitive  from  the  law?"  Mary  cried, 
"You!" 

He  released  her  hand  and  mutely  nodded.  He 
kept  his  eyes  now  on  the  ground. 

With  a  motion  as  swift  as  the  flight  of  a  humming 
bird  she  caught  his  hand.  She  held  it  against  her 
breast  and  forced  his  eyes  to  rise  to  hers.  "I  won't 
believe  it!  I  won't!  I  won't!  I  won't!  God  will 
not  let  that  be  true,  Charlie.  You've  come  into  my 
tormented  life  like  a  sweet  dream  of  everything  that 
is  good  and  noble.  You  can't  make  me  believe  it. 
You  have  reasons  for  deceiving  me.  What  they 
are  I  don!t  know,  but  what  you  say  is  not  true. 
It  would  kill  me  to  believe  it.  When  Albert  Frazier 
mentioned  it  I  knew  that  it  was  too  absurd  to  think 
about." 

"Well,  he  was  wrong  about  that,"  said  Charles, 
seeing  her  drift.  "There  were  certain  men  in  the 
circus  who  left  about  the  time  I  did,  and  there  were 
warrants  out  for  their  arrest.  I  was  not  one  of  them. 
I  left  for  fear  that  certain  questions  regarding  my 
identity  might  be  put  to  me  that  I  could  not  answer, 
and  for  the  additional  reason  that  I  was  sick  of  the 
life  I  was  leading.  The — the  offense  with  which  I 
am  charged  dates  further  back.  I  did  not  think  that 
I'd  ever  have  to  tell  you  these  things,  but  I  find  that 
I  must.  I  am  not  a  safe  man  for  you  to  know — 

324 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

certainly  not  a  man  worthy  of — of  the  things  you 
have  said  to-night.  This  living  here  and  helping 
you  a  little  has  been  like  heaven  to  me,  but  it  can't 
go  on.  I  am  a  misfit  in  life.  I  am  an  outcast  for 
all  time.  You  may  be  holding  a  sort  of  ideal  of  me 
— women  in  their  deep  purity  will  do  those  things 
sometimes — but  I  must  undeceive  you.  You  must 
see  me  as  I  really  am.  I  was  a  drunkard,  a  gambler 
— disgraced  in  the  town  I  lived  in,  expelled  from  the 
clubs  I  belonged  to,  found  guilty  in  court;  I  came 
away  to  hide  myself  from  the  eyes  of  all  who  knew 
me.  The  new  life  has  changed  me  to  some  extent. 
I  see  things  differently.  I  think  I  have  a  keener 
moral  sense.  Adversity  seems  to  have  awakened  it 
in  me,  but  Fate  is  punishing  me  severely,  for  the 
consequences  of  my  past,  it  will  always — always 
stand  between  me  and  the  things  I  now  want." 

Mary  still  clung  to  his  hand.  Through  his  des 
perate  recital  she  had  looked  steadfastly  into  his 
eyes.  "I  don't  care  what  you  have  been,"  she  said, 
under  her  breath.  "It  is  what  you  are  now  that 
counts  with  me.  The  greatest  men  and  the  best 
in  history  have  made  mistakes  when  they  were 
young.  It  is  for  you  to  judge  whether — whether 
we  can  ever  be  anything  more  to  each  other  than  we 
are  now.  I  don't  think  it  amounts  to  much  which 
it  is,  if  only  we  love  each  other.  That  is  the  main 
thing.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  but  I  can  never 
love  any  other  man — never!" 

He  lowered  his  head,  but  she  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  ablaze. 

"I  think" — he  was  speaking  now  very  earnestly, 
very  despondently — "that  I  shall  leave  you  as  soon 

325 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

as  my  summer's  work  is  over — that  is,  if  you  are 
out  of  your  trouble  by  then.  I  could  not  go  while 
you  are  so  unhappy.  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  go!"  she  sobbed,  pressing  the 
back  of  his  hand  to  her  wet  eyes.  "Why  need  you 
go?" 

"Because  the  longer  I  stay  the  worse  it  will  be 
for  both  of  us,  and  I  am  afraid  that  my  presence  here 
will  be  discovered.  I  am  using  my  own  name.  I 
never  threw  it  off.  I  must  not  be  taken  here.  There 
are  a  thousand  reasons  why  I  should  avoid  a  chance 
of  that.  You  are  the  main  one." 

"Yes,  that  would  kill  me,"  she  asserted.  Almost 
unconsciously  she  kissed  his  hand,  she  fondled  it  as 
a  mother  might  that  of  a  dying  child.  "I  couldn't 
live  after  that."  Suddenly,  and  after  a  pause,  she 
fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face  again.  "I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me,"  she  faltered. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  tell  father  or  my  brothers 
what  you  have  told  me  to-night." 

"Why?"  he  wondered. 

*'  Because  they  would  misunderstand  it  all.  They 
don't  know  you  as  I  do,  and  I  could  not  bear  to 
have  them  misjudge  you.  You  may  have  broken 
the  law,  but  you  said  you  were  once  in  the  habit 
of  drinking  too  much.  I  am  sure  that  if  you  did 
wrong  you  really  were  not  conscious  of  what  you 
were  doing.  No  man  with  your  nobility  of  character 
could  do  wrong  knowingly.  It  is  not  in  you  and 
never  was.  Don't  tell  my  father  and  brothers.  Will 
you?" 

"If  you  don't  want  me  to  do  so,  I  shall  not,"  he 
326 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

promised.  "I  only  wished  you  to  understand  my 
situation  and  be  on  your  guard.  It  may  be  that  a 
man's  adoration  of  a  woman  may  stir  her  sympathy 
and  even  cause  her  to  imagine  that  she  reciprocates 
his  feeling,  and  you  must  have  known  how  I  felt 
about — " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  "I  know.  That  night  in 
the  cabin — oh,  that  night!  I've  kissed  its  memory 
a  thousand  times.  That  night  I  saw  love  born  in 
your  eyes  and  I  knew  that  for  you  no  other  girl 
existed.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  loved  you  when 
I  saw  how  humbly  and  unselfishly  you  were  striving 
to  save  me  from  pain?  Imagine  that  I  reciprocate, 
indeed!  There  is  no  imagination  about  my  feeling 
for  you,  Charlie.  This  morning,  when  I  discovered 
who  it  was  that  had  sent  that  money  to  Tobe  Keith, 
and  knew  that  you  were  trying  to  keep  me  from 
discovering  that  you  did  it,  I  was  so  happy  that  I 
could  not  speak.  In  my  mind  I  saw  you  stealing 
out  of  the  house  at  night,  meeting  your  friend  at 
the  hotel,  and  his  slipping  up  to  that  cottage  door 
while  you  remained  hidden  from  view.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  I  gloated  in  triumph  over  the  fact  that 
it  was  you  who  did  the  act  of  mercy  rather  than 
Albert  Frazier?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  when  he 
kissed  me —  It  was  just  on  the  cheek,  my  darling, 
just  here  and  it  was  as  cold  as  ice.  Kiss  me,  Charlie,, 
kiss  me — kiss  me."  Her  face  was  raised  to  his,  her 
lips  were  poised  expectantly. 

A  storm  of  doubt  swept  over  him,  and  then  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 


22 


CHAPTER   XXV 

IT  was  just  after  sundown,  two  days  later.  Charles 
was  at  work  in  a  patch  of  cabbages  near  the 
outer  fence  of  the  farm,  not  far  from  the  barn. 
Presently,  happening  to  look  toward  the  thicket,  he 
saw  a  man  in  a  gray  suit  of  clothes  and  a  straw  hat 
cautiously  emerging.  Their  eyes  met.  The  man 
waved  a  handkerchief  and  then  stood  still,  partly 
hidden  by  the  bushes  among  which  he  stood.  Charles 
glanced  toward  the  house  and,  seeing  no  one,  he 
put  down  his  hoe  and  walked  toward  the  man.  They 
met  in  the  edge  of  the  thicket  and  clasped  hands. 

"You  are  back  already — or  did  you  really  go  to 
Atlanta?"  he  questioned,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  would  have  written,  Mr.  Charles, 
but — well,  I  thought  it  might  not  be  best.  You 
didn't  say  that  I  might.  Yes,  sir.  I  attended  to 
everything  the  best  I  could.  I  was  at  the  train  when 
they  got  there  with  the  poor  fellow,  and  saw  them 
take  him  from  the  Pullman  at  the  station  and  put 
him  into  an  ambulance  from  the  sanatorium." 

"How  did  he  look?  How  did  he  seem  to  stand  the 
trip?"  Charles  asked, -anxiously. 

"I  couldn't  tell,  sir.  I  couldn't  see  his  face.  The 
police  kept  the  crowd  back,  but  the  old  woman — • 
his  mother — looked  worried,  and  I  thought  the  doc- 

328 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

tor  from  here  did  also,  and  the  nurse  that  came 
along.  I  think  they  gave  him  a  stimulant.  I  know 
I  saw  a  bottle  and  a  glass  in  the  doctor's  hand. 
They  drove  slowly,  and  so  I  had  no  trouble  keeping 
up  with  them  afoot.  I  saw  them  drive  into  the 
grounds  of  Doctor  Elliot's  sanatorium,  and  I  felt 
relieved.  I  would  have  telegraphed  you,  but  did 
not  know  how  to  reach  you  here  in  the  country." 

"Well,  that  was  two  days  ago,"  Charles  said. 
"Have  you  heard  anything  more?" 

"They  operated  last  night,  sir.  I  was  there  early 
this  morning.  I  went  into  the  grounds,  hoping  to 
get  information,  but  a  guard  stopped  me  at  the 
door  and  refused  to  tell  me  anything.  I  was  trying 
to  persuade  him,  sir — I  know  how  to  deal  with  such 
persons,  as  a  rule — but  this  fellow,  although  I 
showed  him  some  money,  refused  to  talk  at  all.  I 
was  greatly  worried  till  Mrs.  Keith  chanced  along 
and  saw  me.  She  recognized  me,  sir,  and  she  ran 
out  and  grabbed  my  hand.  She  wanted  me  to  go 
into  the  public  sitting-room,  but  I  refused.  Oh,  she 
was  crowding  me  with  questions;  they  came  so 
fast,  sir,  that  she  wouldn't  let  me  get  a  word  in! 
However,  she  was  so — I  may  say  so  gay,  sir,  that  I 
began  to  think  she  had  good  news.  Finally,  Mr. 
Charles,  she  told  me  that  the  operation  was  done, 
and  most  successfully.  In  fact,  sir,  she  says  Doctor 
Elliot  says  her  son's  recovery  is  almost  assured, 
though  it  was  a  narrow  escape." 

"That  is  good  news,  Mike — wonderful  news!" 
Charles  exclaimed.  "It  will  make  some  people  very 
happy." 

"The  young  lady  especially,  I  presume,  sir?" 
329 


"Yes,  her  most  of  all,  Mike." 

"Well,  I  think  she  need  not  worry  any  more  about 
the  poor  fellow.  I  am  sure,  from  all  I  hear  down 
there,  that  he  will  soon  be  on  his  feet.  That  old 
lady,  Mrs.  Keith,  fairly  hung  on  to  me,  Mr.  Charles. 
I  can  hold  my  own  with  the  average  man  in  a  shady 
deal  of  this  sort,  but  not  a  woman  out  of  her  head 
with  gratitude  and  curiosity  combined.  Why,  sir,  I 
thought  once  that  she'd  have  me  arrested  to  force 
me  to  tell  her  who  sent  the  money.  It  was  only  by 
lying  straight  out  that  I  got  away  from  her  clutches. 
I  told  her,  I  did,  sir,  that  I'd  go  down-town  and  ask 
permission  to  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  and  return. 
That  was  the  only  thing  that  saved  me.  I'd  have 
been  there  yet  but  for  that  little  trick." 

"So  she  doesn't  know  that,  anyway?"  Charles 
said. 

"No,  sir,  she  hasn't  the  slightest  idea.  She  tried 
to  make  me  say  that  /  did  it,  but  of  course  I  couldn't 
allow  that,  sir.  So  I  simply  stuck  to  it  that  I'd  been 
sent  by  some  one  else — a  friend,  a  well-wisher  and — 
you  know  what  you  said  to  tell  her." 

"And  what  are  your  present  plans?"  Charles  asked. 

"I  must  return  home,  sir.  I  want  to  stop  in 
New  York  and  see  my  mother,  and  then  go  back  to 
Boston.  I  have  been  away  as  long  as  I  can  manage 
it  now,  sir." 

"You  have  been  of  great  service  to  me,  Mike," 
Charles  said.  It  was  growing  darker  now.  The 
twilight  was  thickening,  the  yellow  glow  in  the 
western  sky  above  the  mountain-tops  was  fading 
away.  They  strolled  down  a  path  toward  the  house. 
"Yes,  Mike,"  Charles  continued,  "no  man  on  earth 

330 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

could  have  done  me  such  a  valuable  service.  If  you 
hadn't  come  that  poor  fellow  would  have  died  and 
half  a  dozen  persons  would  have  been  stricken  down 
with  grief  and  overwhelmed  with  disgrace." 

"And  the  young  lady — the  beautiful  young  lady, 
sir — you  say  she  would  have  suffered  most  of  all?" 

"Yes,  most  of  all,  Mike.  But  you  mustn't  go 
away  with  the  thought  that — that  there  is  anything 
of  a  serious  nature  between  me  and  her,  for  there 
isn't.  No  one  else  here  knows  the  truth,  but  I  have 
told  her — given  her  to  understand — that  something 
is  hanging  over  me  which  will  forever  keep  us  apart. 
She  belongs  to  an  old  and  honorable  family,  Mike, 
and  I  am  what  you  see  me  now  in  these  old  clothes ; 
I  am  a  servant  and  can  never  be  anything  else.  So 
you  are  going  back?  Well,  I  want  you,  if  you 
can,  to  see  Mason  in  New  York  and  thank  him 
for  sending  you  to  me;  and  as  for  the  people  at 
home—" 

' '  I  was  going  to  ask  what  I  might  do  in  regard  to 
them,  Mr.  Charles,"  Michael  said,  suddenly,  as 
Charles  paused.  "Your  brother  and  your  uncle,  who 
lives  with  us  now,  will  not  ask  questions,  but  the 
missis — she  will.  She  is  sure  to,  the  first  oppor 
tunity." 

"You  think — "  Again  Charles  lost  his  way  to 
satisfactory  expression. 

"Yes,  sir.  You  see,  she  has  always  questioned 
me  on  my  return  from  New  York,  to  find  out  if  I 
have  heard  anything.  She  will  want  to  know  this 
time,  too,  sir,  and  I  confess  that  it  will  be  hard  to 
fool  her.  She  looks  one  so  straight  in  the  face,  you 
know,  sir,  and  the  truth  is  she  loves  you  as  if  you 

331 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

were  her  own  brother,  sir.  Nothing  wins  a  woman's 
heart  like  being  tender  to  her  child,  and  she  knows 
how  you  loved  the  little  lady,  sir.  Pardon  me,  Mr. 
Charles,  for  making  a  suggestion.  The  missis  can 
be  trusted  where  you  are  concerned.  She'd  die 
rather  than  betray  your  interests.  Would  you  mind 
if  I  frankly  told  her  that  I  have  seen  you  and  that 
you  are  well  and  safe  ?  I  think,  sir,  that  it  would  only 
be  fair  to  her,  after  all  the  worry  she  has  had  about 
you.  It  would  make  her  very  happy,  Mr.  Charles. 
You  see,  as  it  is,  she  does  not  even  know  if  you  are 
dead  or  alive,  and — and —  But  it  is  not  for  me  to 
advise,  sir." 

Charles  hesitated.  Then  he  said:  "I  think  you 
may  tell  her,  Mike.  I  couldn't  risk  writing  back, 
but  I  can  trust  you  with  that  news  of  me.  Give  her 
my  love,  please,  and  tell  her  to  kiss  Ruth  for  me, 
and — and,  well,  tell  her  anything  you  like.  She 
won't  betray  me.  After  all,  I'm  glad  to  be  able  in 
this  way  to  relieve  her  mind." 

So  closely  were  they  occupied  with  their  parting 
words  that  they  failed  to  see  a  figure  approaching 
from  the  direction  of  the  house.  It  was  Mary, 
and  she  was  close  to  them  when  they  heard  her  step 
and,  turning,  saw  her. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  on  seeing  the  stranger,  "I 
thought  it  was  one  of  my — "  She  checked  herself 
abruptly. 

For  a  moment  Charles  stood  as  if  dazed,  and  then 
recovered  himself.  "This  is  my  friend,  Michael 
Gilbreth,"  he  said.  "He  is  the  one  who  aided  us  so 
substantially  the  other  night." 

"Oh,  and  I  have  wanted  so  much  to  meet  you — 
332 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  thank  you,"  said  Mary.  She  held  out  both  her 
hands  to  the  astonished  servant,  and  he  awkwardly 
took  them. 

"I'm  pleased,  I'm  sure,  miss,  to  meet  you,  but 
— but,"  he  stammered,  "you  must  not  thank  me. 
Mr.  Charles  is  back  of  all  that.  You  see,  miss,  it 
wasn't  expense  out  of  my  pocket — " 

"I  know — I  understand,  but  you  kindly  delivered 
it,"  Mary  said.  "And  that  was  a  great  service.  It 
may  result  in  saving  a  human  life  and  avert  much 
misery  and  misfortune." 

"But,  you  see,  I  owed  the  money  to  Mr.  Charles," 
Michael  went  on,  simply.  "He  advanced  it  to  me  a 
long  time  ago  when  I  was  in  need  myself.  He  is 
always  doing  the  like,  miss,  and  it  is  strange,  for 
the  minute  I  pay  him  back  out  it  goes  to  somebody 
else;  but — " 

"Mike  has  just  brought  good  news  from  Atlanta," 
Charles,  hot  with  embarrassment,  broke  in. 

"Oh,  have  you?"  Mary  cried. 

Michael  hesitated,  looking  at  Charles,  who  an 
swered  for  him:  "Yes.  The  operation  was  highly 
successful.  Keith's  recovery  is  now  practically  as 
sured." 

"Oh,  that  is  good  news!"  Mary  cried,  her  eyes 
flashing  with  joy,  and  she  prevailed  upon  Michael 
to  tell  her  all  the  details.  When  he  had  concluded 
she  looked  toward  the  barn.  "I  must  hurry  and 
tell  my — tell  my  brothers."  She  was  starting  away 
when  she  turned  back.  "You  must  stay  with  us, 
Mr.  Gilbreth.  We  have  plenty  of  room.  Any 
friend  of  Mr.  Brown's  is  welcome  at  our  house." 

Michael  threw  an  awkward  glance  at  Charles 
333 


and  then  said:  "I  thank  you,  miss,  but  I  must  hurry 
away.    My  time  is  up." 

"Then  I'll  say  good-by."  Mary  held  out  her 
hands.  "I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness,  and  I 
wish  you  a  long,  happy  life." 

The  two  men  lapsed  into  silence  as  she  flitted 
away  in  the  gloom. 

Presently  Michael,  with  a  deep  sigh,  said:  "Now 
I  understand,  Mr.  Charles — I  understand  how  you 
are  placed.  Why,  sir,  she  is  the  most  exquisite 
young  lady  I  ever  saw!  She's  not  only  beautiful, 
but,  sir,  she  is  the  real  thing  in  womanhood,  and 
her  voice — I  have  never  heard  one  like  it.  It  is 
like  music,  sir,  full  of  sweetness  and  gentleness  and 
human  sympathy.  Oh,  I  can't  blame  you  for  want 
ing  to  stay  here  and  cut  out  all  the  rest.  Labor  such 
as  you  are  doing  now  with  such  companionship — 

"You  mustn't  misundersu,:^  Mike,"  said  Charles, 
and  his  voice  sank  low  in  his  thror.t.  ' '  She  can  never 
be  more  to  me  than  a  friend.  You  know  why  well 
enough.  I  am  trying  to  be  of  use  to  her,  that's 
all." 

"But  your  heart,  Mr.  Charles,"  Mike  said.  "You'd 
not  be  a  natural  man  if  you  could  keep  from  loving 
a  lady  like  her,  sir.  In  fact,  I  see  it  in  you.  You 
never  were  struck  that  way  at  home,  sir.  Among  all 
the  fair  ones  you  knew  up  there,  none  of  them — 

"We  mustn't  talk  of  that,  Mike,"  Charles  broke 
i':i,  huskily.  "I  don't  allow  myself  to  think  of  the 
impossible.  How  a^e  you  going  to  Carlin?" 

"Afoot,  sir.  I  like  it.  I  can  easily  make  my  tram 
to-night.  Well,  sir,  you  will  have  to  be  going  in  and 
I'll  say  good-by,  Mr.  Charles." 

334 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Good-by,  Mike.  Your  coming  has  been  a  great 
help  to  me." 

Tears  suddenly  filled  the  servant's  eyes,  and, 
turning  swiftly,  he  walked  back  toward  the  thicket 
and  disappeared. 

As  he  neared  the  house  Charles  saw  Mary  coming 
from  the  barn.  Pier  head  was  cast  down  and  she 
was  moving  slowly.  They  met  near  the  kitchen  door. 

"I've  just  left  them,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  full  of 
joyful  emotion.  "Oh,  I  can't  describe  all  that  took 
place.  They  have  both  been  in  abject  despair  night 
and  day  since  Tobe  was  taken  away,  and  when  I 
told  them  the  news  they — •  I  can't  describe  it. 
The  joy  seemed  to  bewilder  them,  stupefy  them. 
Kenneth  sat  still  on  the  horse-trough — I  couldn't 
see  his  face  in  the  dark,  but  I  heard  him  catch  his 
breath,  and  when  he  tried  to  speak  he  choked  up. 
And  Martin — he  came  to  me  and  put  his  head  on 
my  breast  and  cried  like  the  child  he  really  is  at 
times.  Oh,  Charlie,  life  is  wonderful!  I  am  in 
heaven  to-night,  and  my  reason  tells  me  that  I 
never  could  have  reached  it  in  any  other  way  than 
through  what  I've  suffered  and  your  help.  Yes, 
you — you  did  it.  But  for  your  money  all  would 
have  been  lost." 

"You  forget  that  you  yourself  would  have  paid 
it  if  I  had  not,"  Charles  argued,  "or  rather,  it  would 
have  been  paid  by — " 

"No,  there's  where  you  are  wrong,"  Mary  pro 
tested.  "My  father  tells  me  that  the  bank  would 
not  have  cashed  Albert's  check  that  day.  He  has 
met  with  great  losses  in  some  enterprises,  and  is 
on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  No,  if  it  hadn't  been 

335 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

for  you  all  would  have  been  lost.  When  your  friend 
said  just  now  that  you  were  always  doing  kind 
deeds  he  said  only  what  I  already  knew  to  be  the 
truth.  You  are  the  most  unselfish  man  I  ever  knew. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  I—  She  did  not  finish,  but 
suddenly  turned  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

'"TWO  days  later  Rowland  came  back  from  the 
A  village.  He  brought  the  news  that  Keith  was 
well  on  the  road  to  recovery,  and  that  he  had  had  a 
talk  with  the  district  attorney,  who  had  intimated 
discreetly  that  it  was  unlikely  that  grave  charges 
would  be  made  against  his  sons,  owing  to  the  dis 
position  of  the  Keiths  to  drop  the  matter.  The  boys 
might  be  charged  with  disorderly  conduct  and  fined, 
but  an  arrest  would  not  be  made  and  the  case  might 
not  reach  the  court  at  all,  owing  to  the  sympathy 
of  the  judge,  who  felt  that  Kenneth  and  Martin 
had  already  been  punished  enough. 

The  next  morning  after  this  Charles  found  both 
the  boys  at  the  breakfast-table  when  he  came  down. 
To  his  surprise,  they  announced  that  they  were 
going  to  help  him  in  the  field,  that  they  were  willing 
now  to  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  by  passers-by, 
though  they  were  going  to  keep  out  of  sight  as  much 
as  possible.  So,  accordingly,  they  both  secured  hoes 
and  set  to  work  in  the  cotton-field. 

All  that  morning  they  worked  with  energy,  which, 
no  doubt,  was  due  to  their  long  confinement  and 
the  exhilarating  sense  of  freedom.  Mary  came  down 
herself  at  noon  and  brought  them  all  a  delightful 
lunch  which  she  had  prepared  with  her  own  hands. 

337 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

It  was  a  warm  day,  with  plenty  of  sunshine,  and  they 
all  sat  in  the  shade  of  some  oaks  which  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  field.  When  the  lunch  was  over  Mary 
got  ready  to  go  home  and  the  boys  hastened  for 
their  hoes,  to  resume  work. 

"You  are  wonderful!"  and  Mary  smiled  up  at 
Charles,  who  was  helping  her  put  the  things  back 
into  her  basket. 

"Because  I  eat  so  much?"  he  jested. 

"Because  you  are  having  the  most  remarkable 
effect  on  my  brothers.  Even  Kenneth  has  changed. 
He  says  he  wants  to  be  like  you.  He  sees  what  your 
industry  is  producing  for  us.  We  have  never  had 
such  promising  crops  before.  Then — then  your 
talks  have  done  them  good.  I  mean  your  talks  on 
moral  lines." 

'"Moral  lines,'"  he  repeated,  sadly.  "Take  it 
from  me  that  I  am  a  most  unworthy  adviser.  I  do 
not  want  to  sail  under  false  colors.  Your  brothers 
are  fortunate  in  having  had  their  lesson  without 
fatal  and  lasting  consequences.  As  I  have  told  you 
— as  I  have  tried  to  have  you  understand — I  shall 
always  be  what  I  am — a  man  without  a  home,  with 
out  a  family,  without  a  country,  for  I  cannot  legally 
cast  a  vote.  What  your  brothers  are  escaping  from 
—long  imprisonment — I  am  in  danger  of  every  hour. 
So  far  I  have  escaped,  but  I  may  not  be  able  to 
keep  it  up.  Do  you  know — and  I  must  say  it  now, 
so  that  you  will  understand  thoroughly — do  you 
know,  while  I  dread  being  taken  back  home  in 
shackles,  I  dread  another  thing  far  more,  and  that 
is  being  arrested  here.  Your  friends  would  laugh  at 
you  for  being  hoodwinked  by  a  criminal  tramp  in 

" 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

whom  you  have  such  absurd  confidence  as  to  give 
him  food  and  shelter." 

Mary's  eyes  were  full  of  unshed  tears.  She  hastily 
crammed  the  table-cloth  into  the  basket.  "Why 
are  you  talking  to  me  like  this  to-day,  when  I  was 
so  happy?"  she  gulped. 

"Because  you  insist  on  saying  things  about  my 
— my  worthiness,  when  I  am  so  overwhelmingly  un 
worthy,"  he  answered,  grimly,  standing  over  her, 
his  fine  brow  wrinkled  with  inner  pain  and  bared  to 
the  sun.  "Besides,  as  I  say,  you  must  be  prepared 
for  it  if  I  suddenly  leave  without  a  hint  of  my  inten 
tions.  If  I  could  live  a  thousand  years  and  be  trained 
in  the  highest  modes  of  expression  I  could  never 
tell  you  how  much  peace  and  happiness  I  have  found 
here.  This, ' '  and  he  waved  his  hand  over  the  growing 
crops — "this  has  been  like  the  fields  and  meadows  of 
Paradise  into  which  I  walked  suddenly  like  a  man 
who  was  born  blind  receiving  sight.  You  say  you 
believe  in  the  existence  of  God.  Sometimes  I  do, 
but  I  wonder  really  how  He  could  have  allowed  me 
to  grow  unsuspectingly  from  infancy  into  dissolute 
manhood,  and  then  send  me  here?  Why  did  Ke 
direct  my  repentant  steps  to  this  spot — to  this  soul- 
soothing  spot  which  I  have  enjoyed  only  to  lose?" 

"Oh,  because  of  all  you  have  been  to  us!"  the 
gentle  girl  softly  sobbed,  as  she  stood  by  his  side. 
She  would  have  taken  his  hand  but  for  the  nearness 
of  her  brothers.  "You  say  you  have  done  wrong 
in  your  past.  I  don't  believe  it;  but  I  shall  not  dis 
pute  with  you  over  it.  I  only  know  that  God  could 
not  make  a  man  so  helpful,  so  useful  as  He 
has  you  without  eventually  rewarding  him.  As 

339 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Kenneth  and  Martin  are  escaping,  so  shall  you 
escape.  Your  troubles  will  not  last.  £s  for  your 
going  away,  you  shall  not.  I  say  it.  You  shall  not, 
I  could  not  live  without  you.  I  know  that  as  well 
as  I  know  that  you  are  standing  there.  I'd  follow 
you  to  the  end  of  the  world.  If  you  went  to  prison 
I'd  go,  too." 

"You  can't  mean  that."  He  bent  toward  the 
ground  and  uttered  a  low  moan,  and  yet  his  face 
was  ablaze  with  triumphant  light. 

"I  do  mean  it,"  she  reiterated,  "and  if  you  think 
your  running  away  would  save  me  from  silly,  weak- 
minded  embarrassment,  you  must  know  that  it 
would  kill  me.  Yes,  Charlie,  I  tell  you  now  that  if 
you  leave  me  and  I  fail  to  see  you  again  I'll  end  my 
life." 

She  had  stepped  close  to  him  and  he  suddenly 
drew  back. 

"Your  brothers  are  looking  this  way,"  he  warned 
her. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  blurted  out,  desperately. 
"They  may  know.  They  adore  you  as  I  do.  I'll 
tell  them  how  I  feel.  They  are  human.  They  will 
understand." 

"They  would  not  want  you" — Charles  sighed — 
"want  you  to  care  for  a  man  who  may  any  day  be 
thrust  into  jail.  Brought  up  as  you  have  been 
brought  up,  with  your  family  back  of  you,  they  could 
not  want  you  to  care  for  a  man  whose  life  is  the 
deplorable  wreck  mine  is.  Our  parting  is  inevitable. 
I've  tried  to  see  it  otherwise  for  a  long  time,  but  in 
vain.  I  am  responsible  for  the  blight  that  is  on  me, 
and  I  must  bear  it  to  the  end.  Maybe  I  can  tell  you 

340 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

more,  honorably  tell  you  more,  some  day,  but  I 
cannot  do  so  now.  But,  after  all,  even  that  mild 
justification  would  do  no  good.  I  shall  never  forget 
you,  but  it  is  your  duty  to  forget  me.  Women  do 
forget  such  things,  but  I  shall  hold  you  in  my  mind 
and  soul  forever." 

Kenneth  was  approaching  to  ask  some  question 
of  Charles,  and  in  order  to  hide  her  distraught  face 
from  her  brother's  view  Mary  lifted  the  basket  and 
moved  away. 

That  night  the  family,  including  the  two  boys, 
sat  on  the  veranda  after  supper.  Rowland  deported 
himself  as  if  nothing  very  remarkable  had  happened 
in  the  escape  of  his  sons,  but  they  themselves  acted 
like  persons  completely  changed  in  character.  Ken 
neth  had  lost  his  vaunting  air  of  self-assertion  and 
overconfidence,  and  was  very  quiet.  Martin  was 
effervescing  with  the  sense  of  his  release  from  the 
dangers  he  feared  and  half  lay,  half  sat  with  his 
head  in  his  sister's  lap.  Mary's  hands  were  gently 
stroking  back  his  hair,  and  now  and  then  she  bent 
and  whispered  something  mother-like  and  tender  in 
his  ear. 

Dreading  another  reference  from  the  family  to 
the  part  he  had  played  in  their  rescue,  Charles  got 
up  and  went  to  his  room.  He  was  tired,  but  not 
conscious  of  it,  and  not  at  all  sleepy,  for  his  brain 
was  in  a  whirl  with  thoughts  of  what  had  hap 
pened,  together  with  grim  cogitations  on  the  course 
he  was  trying  to  lay  out  for  his  future  guidance. 

His  reason  told  him  that  two  courses  only  lay 
before  him.  The  more  logical  seemed  to  be  his 
abrupt  disappearance  from  the  spot  which  ha,d  be- 

34i 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

come  so  dear  to  him.  The  other  alternative  was  to 
return  to  Boston  and  appeal  to  William  to  release 
him  from  his  agreement.  This  temptation  was  by 
far  the  greater,  and  for  a  moment,  in  his  fancy,  it 
mastered  him.  That  girl — that  wonderful  girl  down 
stairs  with  her  brother's  head  in  her  lap — might 
then  become  his  wife.  "Wife!  wife!  wife!" — the 
very  word  thrilled  him  through  and  through.  He 
was  seated  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  his  hardened 
hands  clasped  between  his  knees.  His  muscles  were 
taut,  his  face  was  wet  with  perspiration;  it  trickled 
in  cold  drops  down  his  neck  onto  his  strong  chest. 
Then  another  vision  was  spread  before  his  mental 
sight.  He  pictured  William  as  he  had  last  seen  him 
at  his  desk  in  the  bank  at  night.  He  saw  himself 
standing  there  telling  the  brother,  whom  he  really 
loved,  that  he  had  come  back  to  undo  the  thing 
that  he  himself  had  proposed.  He  saw  the  dumb 
appeal  in  the  cowering  man's  eyes. 

"But  you  were  free,"  William  seemed  to  say,  "and 
this  means  death  to  me.  Charlie,  it  means  death!" 

"I  know,  but  I  now  love  a  noble  woman,"  he 
heard  himself  pleading,  "and  for  her  sake  I  must 
live,  and  now  I  have  learned  what  life  really  means. 
William,  my  brother,  I  have  failed  in  what  I  under 
took  to  do.  I  am  not  an  angel.  I'm  only  a  man  of 
flesh,  blood,  and  bone — a  primitive  man  who  knows 
no  law  but  that  of  his  heart's  desire." 

He  fancied  that  he  saw  William's  head  sink  to 
his  desk,  the  death  stamp  of  agony  on  his  face.  He 
could  hear  him  say:  "You  are  right.  I  am  the  one 
to  suffer,  not  you.  Leave  me  alone  this  time.  I 
have  the  same  means  here  in  my  drawer.  I  won't 

342 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

fail  now.     Go  home,  say  nothing,  but  be  there  to 
comfort  them  when  the  news  is  brought." 

He  saw  himself  turn  away,  pass  out  at  the  big 
door  and  into  the  lighted  streets.  It  was  the  old 
walk  home  across  the  Common.  Familiar  objects 
were  here  and  there.  Celeste  met  him  at  the  door. 
He  led  her  into  the  parlor  and  turned  on  the  light. 
They  faced  each  other.  She,  too,  had  the  shadow 
of  death  upon  her  face. 

"I  know  why  you've  come,"  he  heard  her  say, 
resignedly.  "I've  been  expecting  it.  No  man  could 
be  unselfish  enough  to  accomplish  what  you  under 
took."  The  light  of  her  affection  for  him  had  died 
out  of  her  eyes.  She  quivered  now  in  fear  and  dread. 

"I  had  to  do  it,"  he  imagined  himself  saying,  in 
the  tone  of  an  executioner  hardened  to  grim  duty. 

"I  understand.  We  are  ready — Ruth  and  I  are 
ready." 

"May  I  see  the  child?  If  she  is  asleep  I  won't 
wake  her.  But  may  I  have  just  one  look?  I  have 
her  picture,  but  that  is  all  of  her  that  was  left  to 
me." 

She  seemed  to  lead  him  up  the  stairs.  How  like 
a  dream  it  all  was !  Celeste  moved  through  the  space 
his  thought  created  as  silently  as  a  creeping  ray  of 
moonlight.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  child's  room. 
The  gas  burnt  low.  There  was  the  snowy  bed.  He 
dared  not  look  at  it  quite  yet.  Around  the  room 
crept  the  eyes  of  his  thought,  seeking  respite  from 
his  growing  remorse.  There  hung  dainty  dresses. 
There  in  the  open  closet  were  other  things — little 
boots,  slippers,  shoes  with  skates  attached,  toys, 
dolls — and  there  on  the  bed — how  he  loved  the 
33  343 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

child!  How  he  pitied  her  as  she  lay  asleep  with 
that  pink  glow  of  life's  alluring  dawn  upon  her, 
unconscious  of  the  blade  he  had  unsheathed. 

"Yes,  she  must  be  told  now,"  Celeste  seemed  to 
say,  in  vague,  ethereal  tones.  "She  is  young  to 
shoulder  it,  but  justice  must  be  done  even  by  a 
child  like  her.  She  must  not  rob  you  of  a  single 
right  or  privilege." 

The  child  waked.  Startled  joy  blazed  in  her 
opening  eyes.  She  uttered  a  scream  of  delight  and 
held  out  her  arms.  He  took  her  to  his  breast  and 
clasped  her  tightly,  her  fragrant  cheek  against  his 
own,  her  warm  body  filling  his  chilled  soul  with 
fresh  life. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  heard  himself  deciding,  and 
forthwith,  the  pulsing  thing  on  his  breast  became 
the  cold  drops  of  sweat  which  his  agony  had  forced 
from  him.  "No,  I  can't  do  it,"  he  repeated.  "I'll 
wander  again.  I've  given  my  word,  and  I'll  keep  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  voices  on  the  veranda  seemed  louder  now. 
He  thought  he  heard  Mary  uttering  a  startled 
command  of  some  sort;  and  then  there  were  steps 
on  the  stairway  and  Kenneth  and  Martin  softly 
knocked  on  his  door.  He  opened  it. 

"Some  one  is  driving  up  the  road,"  Kenneth  ex 
plained.  "Sister  thought  it  might  be  Albert  Frazier 
coming  to  call  on  her.  Anyway,  she  said,  as  he 
doesn't  know  that  we  are  at  home,  we'd  better  keep 
out  of  sight.  He  may  want  to  stay  all  night,  and 
in  that  case  we'll  have  to  go  to  the  barn  again." 

The  three  men  went  to  a  window  and  cautiously 
looked  out.  A  horse  and  buggy  were  stopping  at 
the  gate.  Frazier  was  alighting,  while  Rowland 
went  down  the  walk  to  meet  him  in  accordance  with 
his  hospitable  habit. 

"I  can't  stop  long,"  Frazier  was  heard  saying. 
"Leave  the  horse  there.  He'll  stand,  all  right.  I 
only  want  to  see  your  daughter  a  few  minutes." 

"Thank  God!"  Kenneth  exclaimed,  in  relief. 
"Then  we  can  get  to  bed,  Martin.  Oh,  how  I  hate 
that  man!" 

The  boys  left  Charles  alone.  He  heard  them 
creeping  down  the  hall  to  their  room  at  the  end  of 
the  house.  Later  he  heard  their  father  pass  on  his 

345 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

way  to  his  room.  Charles  sat  down  on  his  bed  again. 
A  different  mood  was  now  on  him.  Hot  fury  raged 
through  him  as  he  thought  of  what  might  be  taking 
place  below.  That  man  might  be  urging  the  gentle 
girl  to  marry  him.  He  might  still  be  holding  threats 
over  her,  and  Mary  might  accept  him.  He  heard 
their  low  voices.  Frazier's  dominated.  Its  coarse 
monotone  rumbled  through  the  hall.  He  seemed  to 
be  explaining  something.  Charles  closed  his  ears, 
for  the  sound  was  maddening. 

"It  is  rather  late  to  call,"  Frazier  was  saying, 
"but  I  had  to  see  you,  and  this  was  the  only  time. 
I've  thought  it  all  over  about  me  and  you,  little 
girl.  I  don't  know,  but  maybe  I'm  not  as  tough  a 
proposition  as  I  appear  to  be.  The  truth  is,  I'm 
all  in.  I've  lost  every  cent  of  money  I  had.  I 
plunged  too  reckless.  I  lived  too  high.  It  was  come- 
easy -go-easy  with  me.  I've  been  a  bad  man,  but 
you  were  always  what  I  Minted.  I  reckon  it  is 
because  you  are  so  good  at  heart,  but  I  knew  that 
you'd  never  love  me.  I  knew  that,  and  so  I  resorted 
to  that  other  game.  I  am  sorry,  for  it  was  a  sneak 
ing  thing  to  do.  But,  as  I  say,  I'm  all  in  financially. 
I  could  not  maybe  for  many  years  give  you  what  you 
deserve,  and  so  I've  decided  to  tell  you  about  it  and 
move  away  from  here.  I  have  a  chance  of  getting 
something  to  do  in  Seattle.  My  mother's  brother 
has  an  opening  for  me  there  and  I  am  going  at  once. 
You  never  cared  for  me,  did  you,  little  girl?  Now 
be  honest." 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  loved  you,"  Mary  responded. 
"It  was  because  you  were  so — so  kind  to  me  and 
father  and  the  boys — that — " 

346 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Oh,  I  know.  That  was  part  of  my  dirty  work," 
Frazier  sighed.  "I  was  looking  a  long  way  ahead. 
Your  father  is  as  simple  as  a  child,  and  I  was  using 
him,  tempting  him  to  let  me  indorse  for  him.  How 
ever,  he  owes  me  nothing  now.  I  am  a  bankrupt 
and  the  bank  that  advanced  the  money  to  him  with 
my  security  will  look  to  him  for  it.  Your  crops  are 
good  this  year,  and  he  will  be  able  to  make  a  sub 
stantial  payment  on  account  when  they  are  mar 
keted.  That  man  you  picked  up  is  a  wonder.  My 
brother  thinks  there  is  something  crooked  about 
him  and  is  looking  him  up.  The  fellow  acts  strange 
ly,  but  he  is  doing  your  place  no  harm,  and  perhaps 
you  ought  to  keep  him.  There  is  some  mystery 
about  him,  but  I've  seen  others  like  him  who  turned 
out  all  right  in  the  end.  I  think  he  has  secret  as 
sociates.  In  fact,  I  have  an  idea  that  some  friend  of 
his  advanced  the  money  for  Tobe  Keith's  operation. 
I  started  to  make  investigations  on  that  line,  but 
my  crash  came,  and  all  that  is  off." 

"Do  you  think  Tobe's  chance  is  good  to  recover?" 
Mary  asked,  falteringly. 

"That  is  one  thing  I  came  to  tell  you,"  Frazier 
answered.  "The  latest  news  is  even  more  favorable. 
I  heard  this  afternoon  from  Doctor  Harrison  that 
he  is  doing  splendidly." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  Mary  cried.  "You  can't  im 
agine  how  much  it  means  to  me!" 

"I  think  I  can,  little  girl,  for  you  are  a  mother 
to  the  boys,  young  as  you  are.  I  came  to  say  some 
thing  else,  too.  I  wanted  to  wipe  my  slate  off  as 
clean  as  possible  before  I  go,  and  so  I  set  to  work 
on  my  brother.  He  now  knows  all  about  how  I 

347 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

felt  to  you,  and,  as  he  is  a  good  fellow,  he  promised 
to  help  all  he  could.  He  is  sure  now  that  the  boys 
will  never  be  seriously  punished  and  has  promised 
me  not  to  arrest  them." 

"Does  he  know  that  they  did  not  go  West,  after 
all?"  Mary  asked,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  he  does  now.  The  boys  were  seen  working 
in  the  field  by  a  mischievous  neighbor,  who  reported 
it,  but  no  harm  will  come  of  it  now.  You  can  de 
pend  on  my  brother.  He  will  not  molest  them. 
They've  had  their  lesson.  They  never  were  a  bad 
sort,  but  only  a  little  wild.  They  have  good  blood 
in  them  and  will  come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  My 
brother  really  hates  to  have  me  leave,  and  he  will 
stand  behind  any  friend  of  mine.  I'm  a  rotten  egg, 
little  girl.  Wanting  to  tie  to  you  was  my  best  point, 
and  that  was  a  doubtful  one,  for  I  was  unworthy  of 
you,  and  knew  it  all  along — all  along.  I  reckon  a 
man  ought  to  be  as  clean  as  the  woman  he  marries, 
and  I  was  wrong,  too,  in  trying  to  get  you  by  the 
methods  I  was  using." 

The  horse  at  the  gate  was  pawing  the  ground 
impatiently.  Frazier  looked  over  the  landscape 
musingly.  The  moon  was  just  appearing  above 
a  mountain-top.  The  old  house  which  had  blazed 
with  the  festive  light  and  rung  with  the  merriment 
of  buried  generations  stood  swathed  in  darkness,  its 
roof-edge  drawing  a  line  against  the  dun  sky. 
Ghosts  of  the  past,  earth-anchored  by  sweet  mem 
ories,  perchance,  came  and  went  through  the  old 
doorway  and  strolled  about  the  moonlit  grounds. 

"It  is  time  I  was  going,"  Frazier  announced.  "I 
don't  know  what  has  come  over  me -of  late,  little 

348 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

girl,  but  I  know  that  I  am  different  from  what  I 
used  to  be.  If  I  hadn't  been  I'd  never  have  said 
what  I've  said  to-night.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy. 
You'd  never  have  been  so  with  me — never! 
Good-by!" 

"Good-by!"  she  echoed.  She  was  crying.  Why? 
She  couldn't  have  answered.  She  went  with  him 
to  the  gate.  She  held  his  arm  in  a  gentle  grasp  of 
pitying  gratitude.  They  shook  hands  over  the  gate. 
He  took  up  the  reins,  got  into  the  buggy  with  his 
old  ponderous  movement,  raised  his  hat,  and  the 
impatient  horse  bore  him  away. 

She  turned  and  glanced  up  at  the  window  of 
Charles's  room.  He  was  standing  there,  looking 
at  her,  but  she  could  not  see  him  through  the  murky 
panes. 

"Now  go  to  bed,  darling,"  a  voice  from  the  past 
whispered  in  her  subconscious  ear.  "Mother  is 
watching  over  you." 


'"PHE  next  day,  in  the  afternoon,  Charles  and 
A  the  boys  were  in  the  blacksmith's  shop  re 
pairing  a  plow  that  was  to  be  used  immediately. 
Kenneth  was  at  the  bellows,  and  Charles  at  the 
a.nvil,  his  sleeves  rolled  high  on  his  brawny  arms. 
Martin  stood  in  the  doorway.  Presently  he  whistled 
softly,  and  ran  to  Charles  just  as  he  was  about  to 
strike  the  red-hot  plowshare  which  he  was  holding 
on  the  anvil. 

"Don't  make  any  noise!"  he  said.  "I  see  a  buggy 
and  horse  stopping  at  the  gate.  It  looks  like  the 
sheriff's  rig,  and  I  think  he  is  in  it." 

Charles  dropped  his  tools,  and  he  and  his  com 
panions  crept  to  a  crack  in  the  wall  and  peered 
through  it. 

"That's  who  it  is,"  Kenneth  informed  Charles,  in 
a  startled  voice.  ' '  I  wonder  if — if  Tobe  has  become 
worse,  or — or — " 

"I  couldn't  stand  that,"  Martin  cried  out.  "Oh, 
don't  think  it!" 

Charles  said  nothing,  and  there  was  no  response 
from  Kenneth,  who  was  grimly  peering  through  the 
crack.  They  saw  Rowland,  bareheaded,  walking 
leisurely  from  the  veranda  to  the  gate.  They  saw 
him  shaking  hands  over  the  buggy-wheels  with  the 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

sheriff.  They  could  not,  at  that  distance,  read  his 
face.  Of  what  was  taking  place  the  three  watchers 
could  form  no  idea.  Presently  they  saw  Mary  come 
down  the  walk,  pass  through  the  gate,  and  shake 
hands  with  the  sheriff. 

"Sister  means  to  find  out  if  anything  has  gone 
wrong,  so  she  can  warn  us,"  Kenneth  said.  "Brown, 
this  looks  pretty  tough  on  us.  We  were  thinking 
everything  was  all  right,  but  this  looks  bad." 

Still  Charles  said  nothing.  His  face,  only  half 
illumined  by  the  light  through  the  crack,  which 
struck  across  his  fixed  eyes,  was  grim  and  perplexed. 

They  saw  Mary  at  her  father's  side,  but  the  hood 
of  her  sunbonnet  hid  her  face  from  view.  The  three 
stood  talking  for  several  minutes;  then  Mary  was 
seen  leaving  and  turning  in  their  direction. 

"She's  coming  to  tell  us,"  Kenneth  said.  "Now, 
we'll  know.  Keep  still.  Maybe  she  is  afraid  we'll 
be  seen  or  heard  at  work." 

Mary  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  removed 
her  bonnet  and  smiled  reassuringly.  "Frightened 
out  of  your  skins,  I'll  bet,"  she  jested.  "I  came  to 
tell  you.  He  is  not  looking  for  you.  He  said  so 
plainly,  for  he  saw  how  worried  I  was.  In  fact, 
he  said  that  Tobe  was  still  improving,  and  hinted 
— he  didn't  say  so  in  so  many  words — but  he  hinted 
that  he  knew  you  both  were  about  the  place,  and 
that  he  was  not  going  to  molest  you  now  that  Tobe 
is  out  of  danger." 

Charles  was  staring  at  her  fixedly;  the  animation 
that  should  have  been  in  his  face  was  absent.  ' '  Then 
he  wanted  to  see  your  father  about  something  else?'5' 
he  said. 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Yes,  some  business,  or — "  Mary  broke  off,  and 
with  a  sudden  shadow  across  her  face  she  stood 
staring  at  him.  "I  don't  know  what  he  wanted  to 
see  father  about.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  of  a 
private  nature,  and  so — so  that's  why  I  came  away." 

"Gee!  what  does  it  amount  to,  since  he's  letting 
us  go?"  said  Martin.  He  stepped  to  his  sister's 
side  and  stood  with  his  arm  around  her  waist.  For 
once  she  seemed  unaware  of  the  boy's  presence.  She 
was  recalling  something  Albert  Frazier  had  said 
about  the  sheriff's  opinion  of  Charles.  Could  the 
present  visit  pertain  to  him  ? 

"Thank  the  Lord,  he's  off!"  Kenneth  exclaimed. 
"Bully  boy,  that  chap!" 

The  brothers  went  to  the  doorway,  looked  all 
around,  and  then  hastened  away  to  meet  their 
father,  who  was  slowly  coming  toward  the  shop. 
They  joined  him. 

"Where  is  your  sister?"  he  asked.  They  told  him, 
and  he  went  on,  as  if  only  partially  conscious  of 
their  eager  questions.  '.'? 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  he  said,  impatiently.  "He 
is  not  going  to  bother  you.  Oh,  Mary,  where  are 
you?" 

"Here,  father,"  she  answered,  as  she  came  out, 
accompanied  by  Charles.  "Did  you  want  me?" 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  now  glanced  at  Charles 
with  a  look  of  vague  displeasure  on  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  see  you.  Come  to  the  house  with 
me,  please." 

Mary  was  sure  now  that  something  pertaining  to 
Charles  had  happened,  for  her  father  was  treating 
him  in  a  manner  that  surely  indicated  it;  the  old 

352 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

man  had  taken  no  notice  of  him.  and  that  was  most 
unusual. 

Leaving  the  others  in  the  shop,  Rowland  led  his 
daughter  toward  the  house.  "I  wanted  to  see  you 
about  a  little  matter  that  may  be  rather  serious,'* 
he  began.  "The  sheriff  didn't  come  to  see  me  about 
the  boys  at  all,  but  about  Mr.  Brown." 

"About  him!"  Mary  said,  faintly.  "What  about 
him?" 

"He  put  a  lot  of  questions  to  me  in  regard  to 
Mr.  Brown,"  Rowland  said,  "but  I  couldn't  answer 
a  single  one  of  them.  He  seemed  surprised — as 
tonished,  in  fact,  for  he  said  he  didn't  see  how  any 
sensible  man  could  take  in  a  stranger  like  Brown 
unless  he  had  proper  credentials.  I  couldn't  even 
tell  him  where  Mr.  Brown  came  from,  who  he  was, 
or  anything.  I  tried  to  explain  that  Mr.  Brown  had 
been  so  gentlemanly  and  useful  that  we  hadn't 
thought  such  a  course  necessary,  but  the  sheriff 
only  laughed  at  me  for  being  so  easily  hoodwinked." 

"Hoodwinked!"  Mary  protested.  "He  hasn't 
hoodwinked  us,  father.  I'm  sure  he  is  all  we  have 
given  him  credit  for  being." 

"Well,  it  seems  that  the  sheriff  thinks  there  is 
something  very  suspicious  about  him.  Warrants 
are  out  for  a  number  of  men  who  left  the  circus 
when  Mr.  Brown  did.  The  sheriff  says  that  Mr. 
Brown  has  been  leaving  our  house  at  night,  and  has 
been  seen  in  town  on  several  occasions.  Quite  re 
cently  he  met  a  stranger  at  the  hotel,  a  queer  fellow 
with  a  Northern  accent  who  had  refused  to  register. 
They  were  out  together  the  night  the  gift  was  made 
to  Mrs.  Keith  that  everybody  is  talking  about,  and 

353 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

the  man  that  turned  the  money  over  to  her  answered 
the  description  of  the  stranger  that  Mr.  Brown  wa< 
with." 

"But  surely  the  sheriff  is  not  fool  enough  to  think 
that  giving  money  away  like  that  was  a  sign  that 
Mr.  Brown  was — was  a  suspicious  character!"  pro 
tested  Mary. 

"The  sheriff  thinks  that  very  thing  is  ground 
for  suspicion,"  Rowland  went  on.  "He  says  it  may 
be  that  Tobe  Keith  knows  more  than  he  has  ever 
let  out.  It  seems  that  he  was  seen  drinking  with 
some  of  the  circus  men.  The  sheriff  thinks  that  the 
money  was  paid  over  by  persons  who  were  afraid 
Tobe  would  make  some  sort  of  death-bed  statement 
that  would  implicate  Mr.  Brown  and  others.  The 
sheriff  found  out  through  one  of  his  men  that  the 
same  man  who  met  Mr.  Brown  at  the  hotel  was  seen 
at  the  hospital  in  Atlanta  where  Keith  is,  and  then 
again  here  with  Mr.  Brown.  I  don't  want  to  be  un 
fair  or  suspicious  of  innocent  persons,  but — now  I 
must  be  plainer,  daughter.  I've  been  afraid  that 
you  and  Mr.  Brown —  But  I'm  sure  you  know  what 
I  mean  without  my  going  into  it." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  father,"  Mary  faltered. 

"I  don't  want  to  offend  you,  my  dear,"  Rowland 
went  on,  "but  it  seems  to  be  my  duty  to  bring  it 
up.  He  is  an  educated  man  and  has  the  manners 
of  a  refined  gentleman.  In  fact,  when  I  used  to  con 
trast  him  with  Albert  Frazier  it  seemed  to  me  that 
a  young  girl  like  you  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed 
with  him.  He  is  a  good  talker  and  has  seen  some 
thing  of  the  world,  evidently.  I  must  say  I  like 
him.  I  like  him  so  much  that  I  almost  feel  that  it 

354 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

is  my  duty  to  be  more  open  with  him  than  I  can 
be,  for  I  promised  the  sheriff  that  I'd  say  nothing 
to  him  of  this.  He  wants  to  have  him  watched  for 
a  week  or  so.  In  any  case,  he  thinks  that  tinder 
some  pretext  or  other  he  may  arrest  him  and  force 
him  to  give  an  account  of  himself." 

"An  account  of  himself!"  Mary  repeated  the 
words  to  herself.  Then,  touching  her  father's  arm 
appealingly,  she  said,  aloud:  "Do  you  think  you 
ought —  Surely,  father,  you  will  not  let  this  change 
your  manner  toward  Mr.  Brown?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  just  now  in  the  shop  you  treated  him 
coldly.  I'm  sure  he  must  have  noticed  it.  He  is  an 
unhappy,  lonely,  sensitive  man,  who — I  think — has 
had  some  great  trouble." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  treat  him  differently,"  Rowland 
said  with  regret.  "Perhaps  I  was  absorbed  in  what 
I  had  to  tell  you.  But  the  truth  is  I  must  be  careful, 
more  careful  with  you  than  I  have  been.  I  see  now 
that  I  was  wrong  to  allow  you  to — to  see  quite  so 
much  of  a  stranger  as  you  have  of  this  one.  You 
remember  you  and  he  were  out  one  entire  night — 

"Oh,  don't  bring  that  up!"  Mary  cried.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  how  that  came  about." 

"Oh  yes,  but,  nevertheless,  you  and  he  were  to 
gether,  and,  as  I  said,  he  is  an  attractive  man.  Right 
now  you  are  defending  him.  Think  of  that,  daugh 
ter,  you  are  defending  a  man  we  know  absolutely 
nothing  about,  and  who  I  must  frankly  say  has  not 
treated  our  hospitality  with  due  respect  in  not  pro 
ducing  proper  credentials.  The  profession  he  was 
in  before  he  came  to  us  was  a  queer  one  for  an  edu- 

355 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

cated  gentleman.  You  must  admit  that.  Your 
future  and  your  happiness  is  in  my  hands,  and  a 
young  lady  with  the  ancestry  you  have  had  ought  to 
look—" 

"Don't  mention  my  ancestry,  father,"  Mary 
broke  in.  "It  interests  you,  but  it  does  not  interest 
me.  Life,  as  it  is,  is  too  grim  and  earnest  to  spend 
any  part  of  it  in  digging  up  the  dry  bones  of  dead 
lords  and  ladies." 

"Blood  will  tell,"  Rowland  frowned  in  sudden 
displeasure.  "We  are  poor  and  have  our  troubles, 
but  we  know  who  we  are.  Yes,  I  must  be  more 
careful  with  you,  my  dear.  And  if  Mr.  Brown  can 
not  show  who  and  what  he  is  he  doesn't  deserve 
my  friendship  nor  your  faith  in  him.  Women  are 
sentimental.  Whatever  they  want  to  be  right  they 
think  is  right.  The  sheriff  has  set  me  to  thinking. 
He  just  as  good  as  told  me  that  I  was  crazy  to  harbor 
this  young  man  under  the  circumstances.  I  won't 
say  anything  to  Mr.  Brown,  but  I  hope  you  will  be 
careful.  You  must  not  let  it  be  said — if  the  sheriff 
does  arrest  him — that  you  were  ever  anything  more 
to  the  young  man  than — " 

"I  know  nothing  wrong  about  Mr.  Brown/' 
Mary  broke  out,  now  flushed  with  anger,  "and  I 
know  much  that  is  good — much  that  I  cannot  tell 
you.  I  do  not  intend  to  let  a  coarse  man  like  that 
sheriff  influence  my  opinion  in  the  slightest.  He 
doesn't  know  Mr.  Brown  and  I  do." 

"Still,  you  must  be  careful,"  Rowland  urged. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Mary  said, 
stubbornly.  "I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  know.  I 
shall  have  to  treat  Mr.  Brown  as  my  conscience 

356 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

tells  me  to  treat  him.    I  know  what  he  has  done  and 
is  doing  for  us,  and  that  is  enough  for  me." 

"I  know,  but  you  must  be  careful,"  her  fathei 
repeated.  "Even  the  boys  must  be  put  on  their 
guard." 

"On  their  guard,  indeed!"  the  girl  sniffed.  "If 
you  haven't  eyes  to  see  that  Mr.  Brown  is  making 
men  of  them,  I  have.  If  you  thought  as  much  about 
your  children  as  you  do  about  your  forefathers  you 
would  have  noticed  the  wonderful  change  in  their 
characters  that  Mr.  Brown  has  brought  about  by 
his  talks  and  his  example." 

"I  take  your  rebuke,  my  dear,  because  in  a  way 
it  is  deserved.  I  have  been  too  much  absorbed 
of  late  in  my  history,  but  the  book  is  about  done  now, 
and  I  shall  have  more  time  for  other  matters.  If 
Mr.  Brown  has  helped  the  boys  I  shall  be  grateful 
for  it;  still,  good  deeds  sometimes  are  done  by  per 
sons  who,  to  say  the  least,  are  unsafe.  That  reminds 
me.  A  letter  I  once  wrote  to  a  branch  of  the  Row 
land  family  happened  to  reach  a  man  by  the  name 
who  was  serving  a  long  term  in  prison,  and  the  fact 
is  that  he  gave  me  more  substantial  help  in  what  I 
wanted  than  many  others  who  had  their  freedom 
and  whose  respectability  was  not  questioned." 

"Why  not  state  in  your  book" — Mary  hah0  smiled 
— "that  the  best  information  you  cottld  get  about 
the  Rowlands  was  from  a  prison?" 

"I  call  that  flippant,  daughter,"  Rowland  an 
swered,  "but  it  doesn't  matter.  A  sense  of  humor 
is  a  family  heritage  which  has  come  down  from  the 
women  of  your  mother's  line,  who  were  noted  for 
their  brilliant  repartee.  I  have  recorded  scores  of 

357 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

bright  sayings  in  my  book.  Your  great-great-great- 
grandmother  once  said  to  Washington — " 

"I  remember  it,"  Mary  said,  crisply.  "The  same 
thing  was  told  of  a  number  of  other  Colonial  dames. 
Bright  remarks  must  have  been  scarce  in  that  day 
of  scalps  and  tomahawks/' 

Rowland  was  thinking  of  something  else,  and  did 
not  smile.  They  were  at  the  house  now,  and  with 
one  of  his  unconscious  bows  he  left  her  to  go  to  his 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ONE  night,  two  days  later,  Rowland  had  re 
tired  early,  and  the  boys,  having  worked  hard 
all  day,  soon  followed  him.  Charles  was  seated  on 
a  rustic  bench  on  the  lawn.  He  had  noted  the 
change  in  Rowland's  manner  toward  him  and  had 
promptly  coupled  it  with  the  sheriff's  visit.  That 
something  of  a  serious  nature  was  impending  he 
did  not  doubt.  Several  times  he  had  caught  Mary's 
glance,  and  each  time  he  had  felt  that  she  was 
trying  to  convey  some  hint  that  she  wanted  to 
speak  to  him,  but  that  no  suitable  opportunity  had 
presented  itself.  Something  told  him  now  that  she 
would  join  him  where  he  sat;  he  knew  that  she 
had  not  yet  retired,  for  now  and  then  she  passed 
the  window  of  the  lighted  sitting-room.  The  an 
ticipation  of  meeting  her  was  not  that  of  unalloyed 
joy,  for  he  felt  more  and  more  that  he  had  no  moral 
right  to  the  trust  she  was  so  blindly  placing  in  him. 
She  had  bared  her  soul  to  him ;  he  was  unable  to  do 
the  same  to  her.  Loving  her  as  he  did  more  than 
life  itself,  yet  he  was  sure  he  had  no  right  to  foster 
love  in  her  breast.  The  burning  tobacco  died  in 
his  pipe  as  he  held  it  in  his  tense  hand  between  his 
knees  and  again  thought  out  the  sinister  situation. 
For  the  sake  of  his  love's  life  and  hers  he  might 
24  359 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

wreck  the  hope  and  happiness  of  a  whole  family 
to  whom  he  had  pledged  fidelity;  but  if  he  did  that 
even  Mary  herself  would  spurn  him.  Yes,  for  had 
she  not  been  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  on  a  bare 
chance  to  save  her  brothers?  No,  she  loved  him 
for  what  she  thought  he  was,  not  for  what  he  would 
be  if  he  failed  in  his  righteous  undertaking.  He  might 
tell  her  how  he  was  bound,  but  that  would  sound 
like  self-glorification  and  would  do  no  good,  since 
her  only  chance  for  happiness  lay  in  forgetting  him. 

He  felt  rather  than  saw  her  as  she  approached 
soundlessly  on  the  dewy  grass.  He  stood  up.  The 
seat  was  short,  and  the  wild  thought  flashed  through 
his  brain  that  he  had  no  more  right  to  sit  close  beside 
her  than  the  humblest  subject  beside  his  queen;  so 
he  stood  bowing,  and  with  his  hand  mutely  indicated 
the  seat.  She  took  it,  and  then,  as  he  remained 
standing,  she  suddenly  reached  out,  caught  his  hand, 
and  drew  him  down  beside  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  insincerely,  for 
she  knew  the  cause  of  his  restraint. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  I  know  there  is;  but  never  mind,"  she  con 
tinued,  still  holding  his  hand.  "I  had  to  see  you 
to-night,  Charlie.  I  could  not  have  waited  longer." 

"Is  it  about  Albert  Frazier?"  he  asked. 

"No,  you  know  it  is  not.  Besides,  he  has  gone 
away  for  good  and  all.  He  released  me  from  my 
— tny  understanding  with  him.  We  are  not  even 
going  to  write  to  each  other." 

The  heart  of  the  listener  bounded,  but  it  sank  a 
moment  later,  for,  pressing  his  hand,  as  if  to  console 
him,  Mary  went  on: 

360 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  about  yourself,  Charlie — 
yourself." 

"I  can  guess,"  he  said,  grimly.  "It  has  to  do  with 
the  sheriff's  visit  the  other  day.  I  felt  that  some 
thing  was  wrong  from  the  way  your  father  acted. 
He  tries  to  treat  me  the  same,  but  can't." 

Mary  lowered  her  head.  She  toyed  with  his  big 
fingers  as  a  nervous  child  might  have  done.  "I  think 
Albert  started  his  brother's  suspicions  against  you 
soon  after  you  came  to  us,"  she  said,  gently. 

"Suspicions?"  Charles  was  speaking  merely  to 
fill  awkward  pauses. 

"Yes,  it  is  outrageous,  but  he  has  you  mixed  up 
with  the  men  who  left  the  circus  when  you  did.  I 
suppose  his  idea  is  to  get  information  from  you  if 
he  can — force  it  from  you  by  unfair  means.  A  man 
like  him  will  balk  at  nothing  to  gain  his  point." 

"I  can  give  him  no  information,"  Charles  an 
swered,  in  a  low,  forced  tone.  "I  knew  such  men 
were  with  the  circus,  and  that  they  had  left  about 
the  time  I  did,  but  I  did  not  even  know  them 
personally." 

"I  know  that,"  Mary  said,  her  hand  now  like  a 
lifeless  thing  in  his  clasp,  "but  you  do  not  want  to 
be  arrested  and — and  questioned,  do  you?" 

He  started,  stared  steadily,  and  then  released  her 
hand.  "No,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause,  "I  don't 
want  to  go  through  that.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
admit  it  to  you,  but  it  is  a  fact.  I  am — am  really  not 
prepared  for — for  that.  In  fact,  that  is  why  I  left 
the  circus  just  when  I  did.  The  report  was  out 
that  the  entire  company  was  to  be  grilled,  and  I  had 
reasons  for — for —  But  I  think  you  know  what  I 

361 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

mean.  I've  tried  hard  to  make  vou  understand  that 
I  am  unworthy  of — " 

"Stop!"  Mary  cried,  sharply.  "This  is  no  time 
to  go  through  all  that.  I  know  you  are  worthy,  and 
that  settles  it.  But  I  have  not  told  you  all.  Charlie, 
you  are  being  watched  day  and  night." 

"Watched?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  the  sheriff  told  father  so,  and  I  myself 
have  seen  the  men.  One  in  the  day  and  another 
at  night.  At  this  very  moment  we  may  be  under 
the  eye  of  one  of  them." 

"What  is  the  sheriff's  object?"  Charles  asked,  in 
a  tone  of  dead  despair.  ' '  I  mean  in  having  me  shad 
owed  this  way?" 

"I  think  he  has  an  idea  that  the  friend  of  yours 
who  was  here  the  other  day  is  in  some  way  con 
nected  with  the  men  he  is  after,  and  that  he  may 
return  to  see  you." 

"Thank  Heaven,  Mike  is  gone,  and  is  out  of  it!" 
Charles  said,  half  to  her  and  as  much  to  himself. 
"It  would  have  been  terrible  if  that  poor  chap  had 
been  drawn  into  it.  Well,  well,  you  see  what  I  have 
brought  down  on  you  for  so  kindly  giving  me  work 
and  shelter  and  treating  me  as  an  equal  when  I 
am  simply  an  outlaw  trying  to  escape  imprison 
ment." 

"Hush!  hush!"  Mary  cried,  fiercely.  "I  shall  not 
listen  to  you." 

He  had  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise,  but  again 
she  caught  his  hand  and  detained  him. 

"I  know  what  you  are  at  heart,  and  that  is  all 
I  want  to  know  of  your  affairs.  You  have  said  you 
were  bound  by  honor  not  to  tell  everything,  and  I 

362 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

would  not  want  you  to  break  your  word  even  to 
enlighten  me." 

His  face  was  set  and  pale,  his  lips  twisted  awry. 
Again  he  drew  his  hand  away.  ' '  Have  you  any  idea 
when  they  will  arrest  me?"  he  asked,  hollowly. 

"Not  for  a  week  or  so,  anyway,"  Mary  responded. 
"The  sheriff  said  that  you  would  not  be  allowed  to 
leave  here.  Do  you  want  to  get  away,  Charlie?" 

"It  would  do  no  good  to  try,"  he  sighed,  and  yet 
bravely,  for  he  was  not  thinking  of  himself  at  all. 
' '  It  would  be  an  open  admission  that  I  was  avoiding 
the  law."  He  sighed  again  and  stood  up.  "Pardon 
me,"  he  said,  "but  I  mustn't  let  you  compromise 
yourself  like  this.  You  say  I  am  watched,  and  it 
would  be  unfair  to  you — to  your  father — to  your 
brothers — for  your  name  to  be  associated  in  the 
slightest  with  mine." 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  Mary  was  standing  by 
him  now,  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "I  thought  I  was 
unhappy  over  my  brothers,  but,  now  that  they  are 
out  of  trouble,  I  am  in  agony  over  you.  Oh,  Charlie, 
don't  you  see — don't  you  understand — " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob.  He  was  swayed  by  a- 
storm  of  emotion.  He  was  about  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  when  the  thought  of  being  seen  by  a  hidden 
observer  checked  him. 

"You  must  go  in  now,"  he  said.  "See  how  the 
dewr  is  settling  on  your  hair." 

She  nodded  mutely,  and  side  by  side  they  went  to 
the  house.  The  sitting-room  on  the  left  of  the  hall 
wras  lighted,  the  parlor  on  the  right  was  dark. 

"Come  into  the  parlor,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  firm 
tone.  "No  one  could  see  us  there,  and — and — oh, 

363 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Charlie!  I  can't  part  with  you  like  this!  I  can't 
bear  it.  I'd  lie  awake  all  night." 

In  the  silence  of  the  big  room  they  stood  facing 
each  other.  Their  hands  met  like  drowning  persons 
afloat  in  a  dark,  calm  sea.  He  could  see  her  eyes 
in  the  gloom.  They  seemed  like  portals  of  escape 
from  a  living  hell.  Her  quick  breath  fanned  his 
face;  the  warmth  of  her  being  drove  the  deathlike 
chill  from  his  body.  He  took  her  face  into  his  hands, 
and  bent  and  kissed  her  lips.  She  put  her  head  on 
his  breast,  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  held  him 
tightly. 

"They  shall  not  part  us,"  she  whispered  against 
his  cheek.  "Never,  never,  never!" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  Boston  family  were  at  breakfast.  William 
was  in  his  place  next  to  his  wife,  and  his  uncle, 
who  now  lived  in  the  house,  sat  opposite  him.  The 
two  men  were  talking  of  stocks,  bonds,  securities, 
and  insurance  rates.  Celeste  was  taking  no  part  in 
the  conversation.  In  her  morning  dress  she  looked 
as  frail  and  dainty  as  ever. 

Presently  the  maid  who  was  waiting  at  the  table 
bent  over  her  shoulder  and,  smiling,  whispered 
something  to  her. 

' '  Oh,  is  he !"  Celeste  exclaimed.  ' ' Tell  him  to  wait. 
I  want  to  see  him  after  breakfast." 

"Who  is  it,  dear?"  William  asked. 

"It  is  Michael,"  she  returned.  "He  has  got  back 
from  New  York.  I  want  to  find  out  how  his  mother 
is.  He  has  been  away  longer  than  usual.  I  am 
afraid  she  may  be  worse." 

Raising  his  coffee-cup  to  his  lips,  William  dis 
missed  the  subject  and  continued  his  chat  with  his 
uncle. 

"We  certainly  have  made  the  bank  pay,"  the 
older  man  said.  "As  you  know,  it  was  not  in  the 
best  condition  when  I  took  hold  of  it.  I  had  no 
idea  running  a  bank  was  so  interesting.  I  have 
handled  my  end  well  and  you  have  yours.  I  have 

365 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

heartily  enjoyed  my  work,  but  sometimes  I  am  in 
doubt  about  you." 

"About  me?"  William's  eyes  met  the  upward 
glance  of  his  wife,  and  both  looked  at  the  old  man 
inquiringly. 

"Yes.  You  always  seem  nervous,  overworked, 
and  worried.  I've  tried  to  make  it  out.  Are  you 
sure  you  are  entirely  well?  You  are  getting  gray, 
my  boy,  and  your  signature  often  has  a  shaky  look. 
You  don't  smoke  too  much,  do  you?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  William,  and  his  eyes  fell 
under  the  calm,  penetrating  stare  of  his  wife.  "But 
I  am  nervous,  and  seem  to  be  getting  more  so.  I 
am  thinking  of  a  vacation." 

"That  is  right,  take  it,"  his  uncle  said.  "I  can 
run  the  old  boat  awhile  by  myself." 

Celeste  remained  at  the  table  after  they  had  left 
the  room.  She  listened  attentively  and  heard  them 
closing  the  door  as  they  went  out  into  the  street. 
No  sooner  were  they  away  than  she  rang  for  the 
maid. 

"Please  tell  Michael  that  I  want  to  see  him," 
she  said  to  the  girl.  "He  is  still  there,  is  he  not?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

In  a  moment  Michael  appeared,  his  hat  in  hand. 

"When  did  you  get  back?"  Celeste  asked,  after 
she  had  greeted  him  and  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  the  dust  of  travel  on  his  gray  suit  and  in  the 
hollows  of  his  earnest  blue  eyes. 

"At  four  o'clock  this  morning,  madam;  I'm 
pretty  well  done  up." 

"How  did  you  leave  your  mother?"  asked  Celeste, 
and  her  eyes  swept  him  from  head  to  foot.  It  was 

366 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

plain  to  the  servant  that  her  questions  were  merely 
perfunctory. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  madam.  It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  ask." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Michael."  Celeste  faced 
him  more  directly  now.  ' '  I  was  afraid  she  was  worse, 
for  you  know  you  were  gone  longer  than  usual." 

"A  few  days  longer,  madam,"  Michael  said.  "I 
had  no  idea  of  being  detained,  but  I  actually  ran 
across  a  trace  of  Mr.  Charles,  and,  knowing  your 
anxiety,  I — " 

"You  have  found  him — you  have  seen  him!" 
Celeste  interrupted.  "I  know  it  from  the  way  you 
look,  Michael." 

"Yes,  madam,  I  found  him.  After  some  trouble 
and  quite  a  journey  I  located  him  and  managed  to 
meet  and  talk  with  him." 

"Sit  down,  Michael,  sit  down;   you  are  tired." 

He  drew  a  chair  back  from  the  table  and  sat  in 
it,  his  travel-stained  hat  on  his  knee. 

"Now  tell  me  about  him.    Is  he  well?" 

"A  perfect  picture  of  health,  madam,"  Michael 
beamed.  "He  is  living  on  an  old  plantation  down 
in  the  mountains  of  Georgia,  working  like  a  com 
mon  laborer,  but  he  seemed  satisfied." 

"Like  a  common  laborer!"  Celeste  repeated,  sadly. 
"Go  on,  tell  me  everything,  Michael." 

At  some  length  the  old  servant  recounted  his 
experiences  from  the  moment  of  his  meeting  with 
Mason  in  New  York  till  he  had  joined  Charles  in 
the  South. 

"And  the  girl  you  speak  of — the  planter's  daugh 
ter.  You  say  she  is — " 

367 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"The  most  beautiful  and  refined  young  lady  I 
ever  met,  madam.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  well  she 
impressed  me.  You  could  see  by  a  look  at  her 
that  she  was  of  fine  stock.  She  was  very  nice  to 
me.  I  saw  her  father,  too,  but  I  did  not  meet  him — 
a  fine  figure  of  a  gentleman.  A  little  run  down  in 
appearance,  madam,  but  a  courtly  gentleman  at 
bottom.  The  house  was  a  fine  old  place.  You 
could  not  blame  a  young  man  like  Mr.  Charles  for 
wanting  to  settle  there,  after  all  the  roving  he  had 
had  to  get  away  from —  You  understand  what  I 
mean,  madam? 

Celeste  nodded  breathlessly.  "You  must  tell  me, 
Michael,"  she  urged,  "if,  in  your  opinion,  Charles 
is  in  love  with  the  young  lady." 

Michael  hesitated ;  he  fumbled  the  rim  of  his  hat ; 
he  blinked  under  her  steady  stare. 

' '  Answer  me,  Michael , ' '  Celeste  insisted.  ' '  Surely 
he  would  not  object  to  my  knowing  it  if  he  is.  You 
see,  I  am  anxious  to  hear  that  he  has  found  such 
happiness." 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  he  made  no  secret 
of  it,  madam,  but  I  regret  to  say  that  it  has  not 
brought  him  full  contentment." 

"Then  she  cares  for  some  one  else,"  Celeste  said, 
regretfully. 

"On  the  contrary,  madam,  I  am  sure  that  the  feel 
ing  is  mutual.  I  could  see  it  in  the  way  she  looked 
at  him,  and  in  the  way  she  treated  me  merely  because 
I  was  a  friend  of  his,  as  he  told  her  in  my  presence." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  Celeste  pursued.  "If 
they  love  each  other — "  She  went  no  further,  knit 
ting  her  brows  perplexedly. 

368 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"It  is  this  way,  madam.  Oh,  Mr.  Charles  spoke 
plainly  enough  that  night  at  the  little  hotel  when 
he  came  to  see  me!  You  see,  madam,  he  is  con 
scientious — Mr.  Charles  is  remarkably  so,  and  he 
will  not,  he  says,  think  of  asking  such  a  young  lady 
to  be  his  wife  when  he  is — well,  under  a  cloud." 

"Oh!    Oh!    That  is  it!" 

"Oh  yes,  madam,  and  in  that  respect  he  is  to  be 
pitied.  Even  if  he  were  willing  to  keep  his — his 
little  mistake  from  the  young  lady  herself,  he  could 
not  show  her  family  proper  credentials  as  to  who 
he  is.  You  see,  he  is  at  present  a  common  farm 
hand.  The  young  lady  seems  to  understand  him, 
I  should  say,  but  her  people  and  the  community 
don't.  You  would  be  sorry  for  him  if  you  could 
see  him  and  hear  him  talk  in  his  brave,  manly,  and 
patient  way." 

At  this  point  Michael  told  of  the  timely  aid  which 
had  been  given  to  Keith,  the  motive  behind  it,  and 
the  successful  outcome  of  the  operation.  As  he  told 
it,  it  was  a  dramatic  story  which  held  Celeste  spell 
bound. 

"And  he  gave  even  that  money  away!"  Celeste 
cried.  "I  know  he  loves  her,  Michael,  but,  as  you 
say,  he  is  only  a  farm-hand  and  the  other  thing 
hangs  over  him.  I  know  him  well  enough  to  under 
stand  that  he'd  never  think  of  marriage  in  his  con 
dition.  Oh,  he  must  be  unhappy,  Michael !  As  you 
say,  she  may  be  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  for 
him,  and  yet  he  has  to  give  her  up.  Poor,  dear 
Charlie!"  " 

"Yes,  he  is  unfortunate,  madam.  He  no  longer 
drinks.  All  that  is  over.  He  is  a  man  among  men, 

369 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

madam.  His  simple  life  and  regular  habits  have 
improved  him  wonderfully.  He  is  a  young  giant 
of  a  man.  His  skin  is  clear,  and  his  eye  bright,  but 
he  is  sad — yes,  he  is  sad  and  thoughtful,  especially 
when  he  speaks  of  home  and  the  little  girl.  He  cau 
tioned  me  not  to  mention  him  to  her.  He  wants 
her  to  think  of  him  as  dead,  because  the  young  soon 
forget  those  who  die." 

Celeste  rose  suddenly.  "I'll  see  you  again,"  she 
said,  clearing  her  husky  throat.  "I  must  go  now. 
I  thank  you,  Michael.  No  one  else  could  have  done 
what  you  have  done."  At  the  door  she  suddenly 
wheeled  on  him.  "Michael,  wait,  please!"  she  said. 
Her  lips  were  twitching,  her  brows  were  contracted 
as  if  in  deep,  disturbed  thought.  She  rested  her 
thin  white  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair  and  grasped 
it  as  for  support.  "Michael,"  she  continued,  "did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  Charles  may  have  been 
drawn  into  that  trouble  by  others  and  may  not  have 
been  wholly  to  blame?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  thought  that,  madam,"  said 
Michael,  swinging  awkwardly  from  one  foot  to  the 
other  and  blinking.  "I  did  always  think,  and  be 
lieve,  too,  that  he  wasn't  at  himself  when  it  hap 
pened.  I  told  him  I  thought  that  once,  and  he  did 
not  deny  it.  That  is  why  I've  been  so  sorry  for 
him,  for  a  man  ought  not  to  be  punished  all  his  life 
for  a  thing  that  was  done  when  he  was — well,  like 
Mr.  Charles  used  to  get." 

"I  see;  I  see  what  you  think,"  and  Celeste  nodded 
as  if  in  affirmation  of  some  thought  of  her  own. 
"And  you  say  you  think  the  two  are  in  love  with 
each  other?" 

370 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"Oh  yes,  madam,  and  that  is  the  sad  part  of  it." 

"And  that  but  for  Charles's  secret  trouble  they 
would  be  married?" 

"Yes,  madam.    I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  Michael.  You  may  have  done  him 
a  great  service  by — by  going  to  see  him  when  you 
did.  I  mean,"  she  added,  starting  as  from  some 
inner  fear,  "that  reaching  him  just  when  you  did 
with  that  money — •" 

"Oh  yes,  madam,  Mr.  Charles  spoke  of  that  a 
dozen  times.  You  see,  as  I  have  tried  to  explain, 
it  lifted  a  load  from  the  young  lady." 

"I  understand  that,"  Celeste  said,  musingly. 
"And  she  is  very  pretty  and  sweet  and  gentle,  you 
say?" 

"She  is  everything  a  lady  ought  to  be,  madam, 
and,  oh,  I  must  say  my  heart  ached  for  her,  too,  for 
I  could  see  how  she  felt  about  him.  She  is  full  of 
spirit.  She  is  the  kind  that  would  fight  for  a  man 
to  the  last  ditch  and  drop  of  blood.  But,  oh,  madam, 
it  seemed  so  sad !  There  he  was  in  a  farmer's  clothes, 
his  hands  as  hard  as  stone,  and  she — why,  madam, 
he  treated  her  like  she  was  a  princess  of  royal  rank, 
and  all  the  time  with  that  old,  sad  look  he  used  to 
have  when  he  was  scolding  himself  to  me  after  one 
of  his  little  sprees  around  town.  Almost  the  last 
thing  he  said  to  me,  madam,  was  that  when  he  had 
helped  her  all  he  could  he  intended  to  slip  away, 
for  her  own  good,  and  take  up  his  life  somewhere  else 
among  strangers.  It  was  then,  madam,  I  assure 
you,  that  I  almost  lost  my  religion.  I've  been  taught, 
madam,  from  my  mother's  knee — and  she  is  a  saint, 
if  one  ever  lived — I  say  I've  been  taught  that  our 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Saviour  died  to  help  men  who  repent,  and  there 
was  Mr.  Charles  bowed  down  like  that  without  a 
hand  held  out  to  him.  He  gave  up  all  he  loved  here 
— you,  the  little  girl — his  'Sunbeam,'  as  he  called 
her  down  there — and  his  brother,  and  now,  when 
he  has  found  some  one  that  he  loves,  he  must  give 
her  up  also  and  start  to  roving  again.  I  shed  tears. 
I  couldn't  help  it,  and  it  moved  him.  I  could  see 
that.  We  were  in  my  room  at  the  hotel.  His  face 
turned  dark  as  he  sat  there  on  my  bed  trying  to  be 
calm.  He  stood  up  and  shook  himself  and  smiled. 
'Mike,'  he  said,  'nothing  counts  that  we  do  for 
ourselves.  It  is  only  by  forgetting  ourselves  and 
helping  others  that  we  accomplish  anything  worth 
while.'" 

"Thank  you,  Michael,  I'll  see  you  again  soon," 
Celeste  said,  moving  toward  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

'""MOTHING  counts  that  we  do  for  ourselves,"' 
1  ^  Celeste  repeated,  as  she  was  ascending  the 
stairs  to  her  daughter's  room.  At  the  door  she 
paused  and  listened  for  a  moment,  then,  softly  turn 
ing  the  bolt,  she  entered  the  room.  The  blinds  were 
down  to  exclude  the  sunlight  which  was  growing 
warm.  On  the  great  white  bed  Ruth  lay  asleep. 
One  plump  bare  arm,  shapely  wrist,  and  hand  lay 
against  the  mass  of  golden  hair.  Celeste  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  with  a  mother's  parched 
thirst  drank  from  the  picture  before  her  eyes.  How 
beautiful  the  child  was!  How  exquisite  the  pa 
trician  brow,  the  neck,  the  contour  of  nose,  mouth, 
and  chin!  How  temperamentally  sensitive,  im 
aginative,  and  high-strung !  How  proud  of  her  father, 
of  his  social  and  financial  standing  and  his  old  name 
of  Puritan  respectability !  How  affectionate  she  was 
with  her  mother,  how  adored  by  the  servants  and 
by  her  absent  uncle! 

"She  is  all  I  have  now!"  thought  Celeste,  as  she 
choked  down  a  sob.  "Can  I  do  it — am  I  able  to 
do  it?" 

She  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  near  the  bed,  her  gaze 
still  on  the  child's  face.  A  sudden  breeze  fanned 
the  shades  of  the  windows  inward.  She  locked  her 

373 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

hands  in  her  lap,  her  thin,  blue- veined,  irresolute 
hands  in  a  lap  of  stone.  "'Nothing  counts  that  we 
do  for  ourselves,"*  she  quoted,  uncompromisingly. 
"If  I  refuse  I'll  not  be  acting  for  myself,  but  for  her 
— my  baby — my  darling  baby!  Charlie  loved  her 
enough  to  undertake  her  rescue,  and  I  must  help 
him  carry  it  through.  Yes,  I  can  do  that  conscien 
tiously.  It  would  kill  her  to  learn  that  her  father 
was  a  convict.  She  couldn't  grow  up  under  it.  It 
would  blight  her  whole  existence.  At  school  she 
would  hear  it.  In  society  it  would  be  whispered 
behind  her  back  and  thrown  in  her  face.  Oh,  it 
can't  be!  God  would  not  allow  it  to  be.  He  would 
not  allow  the  sins  of  a  father  to  fall  on  shoulders  so 
frail  and  helpless.  Some  coarse  children  would 
think  nothing  of  it;  it  would  kill  my  baby.  She 
would  brood  over  it — oh,  I  know  my  child!  She 
would  hold  it  in  her  mind  night  and  day.  From 
what  she  now  is  she  would  become  an  embittered 
cynic,  soured  against  life  and  her  Creator.  She 
would  never  marry.  She  would  not  want  to  bring 
children  into  a  world  so  full  of  pain.  And  yet, 
and  yet — "  Celeste  rose  and  went  to  a  window  and 
stood  looking  out,  peering  through  the  small  panes 
as  a  hopeless  prisoner  might. 

"And  yet — justice  must  be  done."  Her  white 
lips  framed  the  words  which  shrank  from  utterance. 
' '  Charlie  has  his  rights,  and  so  has  the  girl  he  loves. 
He  undertook  our  rescue  without  knowing  the  cost. 
He  was  full  of  repentance  at  the  time  over  his  trivial 
mistakes,  but  now  he  must  see  it  differently.  Shall 
we  drive  him  to  roving  again  ?  Would  God  give  my 
child  a  happy  life  at  such  a  cost  ?  Would  He  blight 

374 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

the  lives  of  two  of  His  children  for  one — and  those 
two  wholly  innocent?  No,  justice  must  be  done. 
It  must!  It  must!  It  must!  But  I  can't  be  her 
executioner.  Why,  I'm  her  mother!  She  is  all  I 
have  in  the  world!" 

Celeste  crept  back  to  the  bed  and  bent  over  the 
sleeping  child.  Her  hand  went  out  as  if  to  caress 
the  white  brow,  but  her  fingers  lifted  only  a  fragrant 
lock  of  hair,  and  this  she  bent  and  kissed  as  sound 
lessly  as  the  sunlight's  vibration  on  the  rug-strewn 
floor. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Leaving  her  husband 
and  his  uncle  smoking  over  their  papers  in  the 
dining-room,  her  child  in  the  care  of  a  maid,  Celeste 
slipped  away  unnoticed.  She  did  not  often  attend 
church,  but  she  was  going  to-day.  Why,  she  could 
not  have  explained.  It  was  as  if  a  building  with 
a  spire  and  chimes,  altar  and  surpliced  clergyman, 
white-robed  choristers  and  bowed  suppliants,  would 
help  her  make  the  decision  that  a  long,  sleepless 
night  had  withheld.  She  felt  faint  as  she  entered 
the  family  pew  and  bowed  her  head,  for  she  had 
taken  little  nourishment  since  her  travail  began. 
Somehow  her  own  death  seemed  a  near  thing,  but 
she  did  not  care.  There  were  other  things  so  much 
worse  than  mere  death. 

She  failed  to  comprehend  any  part  of  the  sermon 
which  the  gray-haired  minister  was  delivering  in 
that  far-off,  detached  tone.  She  noticed  some  rings 
on  his  stout  fingers  and  wondered  how  such  mere 
trinkets  could  be  worn  by  an  ordained  helper  of  the 
despairing  and  the  God-forsaken.  As  soon  as  the 
service  was  over  she  hastened  homeward.  She  told 
25  375 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

herself  that  she  would  act  at  once  and  face  her 
husband  with  a  demand  that  either  he  or  she  should 
perform  the  bounden  duty.  But  as  she  entered  the 
door  and  heard  the  voices  of  the  two  men  in  the 
dining-room,  and  smelled  the  smoke  of  their  cigars, 
her  courage  oozed  from  her.  She  could  not  tell 
them  both.  Her  talk  must  be  for  William  alone; 
it  would  be  for  him  to  inform  his  uncle,  and  he 
would  do  it.  William,  once  shown  the  right  road, 
would  take  it.  She  knew  him  well  enough  for 
that.  His  wavering  for  the  past  year  had  been 
like  hers,  but  when  he  knew  all  and  was  faced  with 
the  call  of  justice,  as  she  was  facing  it,  he  would 
obey. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  hall  she  paused. 
Should  she  go  back  to  the  two  men,  or —  It  was 
the  rippling  laugh  of  her  child  up-stairs,  who  was 
being  amused  by  a  maid,  the  joyous  clapping  of  a 
small  pair  of  hands,  that  drew  Celeste  up  the  carpeted 
steps  and  into  the  child's  presence. 

"Oh,  mother,  see  what  she  has  put  on  me!"  Ruth 
cried,  gleefully,  as  she  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  robed  in  a  filmy  pink  gown  which  had  been 
made  for  her  use  in  a  class  in  interpretative  dancing, 
and  held  out  the  skirt,  forming  wings  like  those  of 
a  fairy  floating  over  beds  of  roses.  A  circle  of  arti 
ficial  flowers  rested  on  the  golden  tresses.  Ruth's 
eyes  were  sparkling  with  delight  as  she  bowed  low 
in  one  of  the  postures  she  had  been  taught,  and  then 
glided  gracefully  into  her  mother's  arms. 

"Oh,  we've  had  so  much  fun!  Haven't  we, 
Annette?" 

"Madame  will  pardon  me,"  the  French  maid 
376 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

said.  "I  know  it  is  Sunday,  but  she  was  so  full  of 
joy  when  she  waked  that — " 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Celeste  said.  "You  may  go. 
I'll  dress  her  for  dinner  myself." 

And  as  she  did  it,  that  morning  of  all  mornings 
to  be  remembered,  Celeste  was  the  most  pitiable  of 
all  pitiable  creatures.  Her  coming  sacrifice  was  not 
like  that  of  Abraham  in  his  offering  of  Isaac  to  his 
God,  for,  while  he  was  a  child  of  God,  Abraham  was 
not  a  mother. 

"Justice  must  be  done!"  she  kept  saying.  "The 
happiness  of  two  against  the  misery  of  one — two 
against  two,  in  reality;  but  I  don't  count,  I  mustn't 
count.  Charlie  said  to  Michael  that  nothing  counts 
that  we  do  for  ourselves,  and  this  protesting  ache 
within  me  is  self,  for  my  baby  is  myself.  Sweet, 
sweet  little  daughter!  Mother  has  the  blade  ready 
and  must  thrust  it  deep  into  your  joyous  heart. 
Oh,  if  my  cup  would  only  pass,  and  my  will  might 
be  done  instead  of  God's!"  She  held  her  child  on 
her  knees  as  she  took  off  the  pink  symbol  of  dawn 
and  robed  her  anew.  She  was  laying  her  child  on 
an  altar  before  God  and  no  sacrificial  ram  was  in 
sight. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

AJL  the  rest  of  the  day  Celeste  was  with  Ruth. 
She  walked  with  her  in  the  Public  Gardens. 
She  stayed  away  from  home,  fearing  that  some  one 
might  call,  and  she  felt  unequal  to  the  mocking  con 
vention.  Surely  this  was  no  time  for  smirking  for 
malities.  When,  as  the  sun  was  going  down,  she 
and  the  child  returned  home  she  found  no  one  there 
except  the  servants.  She  felt  relieved,  for  she  was 
not  prepared  yet  to  meet  her  husband's  eye,  for 
surely  he  would  know  that  something  unusual  had 
happened  to  her.  She  was  glad  that  he  did  not 
return  till  just  before  the  supper  was  served.  She 
took  Ruth  down-stairs  and  into  the  dining-room  as 
soon  as  the  meal  was  announced.  William  and  his 
uncle  had  met  again  in  the  parlor  and  were  talking 
there  in  low  tones.  She  and  Ruth  were  in  their 
places  at  the  table  when  they  came  in. 

"Yes,  we  certainly  put  it  over  on  them,"  the  old 
man  said,  with  a  chuckling  laugh.  "I  felt  sure  the 
market  was  firm  and  sent  my  wire  at  once." 

"I  was  confident,  too,"  William  answered,  "but 
I  never  knew  you  to  take  a  risk,  and  it  may  have 
been  due  to  that  fact  that  I  was  so  undisturbed." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can  say  as  much  for  you,  William," 
the  old  man  answered.  "Since  I  have  been  with 

378 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

you  at  the  bank  you  have  been  the  most  conservative 
business  man  I  ever  knew.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
you  were  too  careful,  but  caution  can  never  be  a 
fault." 

They  took  seats.  The  business  talk  continued. 
The  bank  was  to  become  the  greatest  in  the  state 
— every  indication  was  in  its  favor.  Celeste  failed 
to  hear  Ruth's  pretty  prattle  at  her  side.  As  she 
looked  at  the  two  men  her  determination,  which 
had  been  held  so  firmly  all  day,  grew  weak  and  vacil 
lating.  How  could  she  carry  out  her  plan  before 
them?  She  sank  more  deeply  into  the  mire  of 
misery  than  ever.  The  whole  world  seemed  black 
and  mad  under  the  contending  forces  of  right  and 
wrong.  How  frail  was  the  spirit  flag  she  was 
striving  to  hold  aloft  in  all  that  clash  and  rush  of 
evil! 

No,  the  right  thing  could  not  be  done — by  her, 
at  any  rate.  Charles  would  have  to  remain  the 
self -elected  lifelong  victim  that  he  was.  After  all, 
he  would  be  saving  her;  he  would  be  saving  Ruth; 
he  would  be  saving  his  brother  whom  he  had  always 
loved.  Saving  his  brother!  But  was  he?  Could  it 
be  done  so  vicariously?  And  as  this  question 
pounded  upon  her  brain  she  looked  for  the  first 
time  with  scaleless  eyes  at  her  husband.  Why  had 
she  not  noticed  it  before?  William  was  the  mere 
withering  husk  of  the  man  he  had  once  been.  His 
deep-sunken,  shadowy  eyes  told  his  story;  his 
parchment-like  skin,  his  furtive,  haunted  look,  re 
peated  it ;  his  constantly  enforced  attention  to  what 
was  being  said  by  others,  his  Judas-like  manner,  the 
quivering  of  his  mentally  handcuffed  hands,  con- 

379 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

firmed  it  again  and  again.  Why,  William  was  dying 
— dying  from  the  sheer  poison  of  his  putrefying  soul. 
Only  his  great,  staring  eyes  seemed  alive,  and  they 
lived  only  in  their  dumb  quest  of  mercy.  Poor 
William!  No  one  could  save  him  but  himself. 
Charles's  nobility,  Charles's  sacrifice,  would  not  do 
it.  He  must  do  it  himself.  Ah  yes,  that  was  the 
key,  and  it  had  dropped  down  from  heaven!  The 
thing  was  settled  now.  She  would  see  him  before 
the  dawn  of  another  day.  She  would  suffer.  Ruth 
would  suffer,  but  William  would  be  saved.  Ah, 
that  was  the  point  too  long  overlooked!  His  only 
child  would  be  paying  the  price,  but  in  the  far-off 
future  Ruth  herself,  with  the  spiritual  wisdom  of  age, 
might  thank  the  memory  of  her  mother  for  the  op 
portunity  given  her. 

The  family  retired  before  ten  o'clock  that  night. 
Celeste  sat  by  her  daughter's  bed,  and  with  a  soft, 
soothing  song  lulled  her  child  to  sleep.  Gradually 
she  felt  the  tiny  fingers  losing  their  grasp  upon  her 
own.  Shortly  afterward  Celeste  heard  William 
ascending  the  stairs  to  his  room  adjoining  hers. 
She  heard  him  close  his  door.  He  always  closed  his 
door.  At  night  or  in  the  day  he  closed  his  door. 
Even  at  the  bank  he  closed  the  door  of  his  private 
office,  perhaps  in  order  that  he  might  release  the 
drawn  cords  to  those  perpetual  curtains  of  his  secret 
self. 

There  was  another  door  between  her  room  and 
his.  Even  that  was  shut.  If  she  wished  to  see  him 
before  he  retired  she  must  hasten.  She  went  into 
her  own  room,  but  did  not  turn  on  the  electric  light. 
She  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  shivering  from 

380 


THE   HILLS   OF   REFUGE 

head  to  foot  as  from  cold.  Presently  she  knocked 
on  his  door.  Then  there  was  a  moment  of  tense 
silence.  The  sound  must  have  startled  her  husband ; 
and  when  at  last  he  did  fumblingly  turn  the  bolt 
and  open  the  door  he  stood  there  in  the  dark,  facing 
her  wonderingly,  speechlessly. 

"I — I  didn't  know  who  it  was — at  first!"  he 
stammered.  "I  thought — thought — " 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  stroking  the  death-damp 
sweat  from  her  brow  and  sliding  past  him  into  his, 
room,  "but  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you.  It  is  something  important,  it  seems  to  me. 
I  couldn't  do  it  before  uncle,  and  you  were  with  him 
all  day.  May  we  have  a — a  light?" 

"Need  we?"  fell  from  his  lips  impulsively,  then: 
"Yes,  dear,  of  course.  I  quite  forgot.  I — I  some 
times  undress  in  the — the  dark  in  the  summer-time." 
He  groped  for  the  button  on  the  wall.  "Yes,  I  was 
right,"  he  thought.  "She  has  had  something  on  her 
mind  all  day  and  last  night,  and  she  says  it  is  im 
portant.  My  God!  important!  Only  one  thing  is 
important — can  it  have  come  up  again?" 

His  fingers  touched  the  button.  He  pushed  it  in 
and  the  white  glare  filled  the  room  like  a  photogra 
pher's  flash-light,  revealing  their  set  visages  to  each 
other.  William  certainly  looked  old  now,  for  a  storm 
of  terror  was  laying  waste  his  whole  suppressed 
being.  She  turned  from  him  in  sheer  pity  of  his 
swaying  frailty.  She  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and,  like 
the  ill  man  that  he  was,  he  sank  into  another.  He 
had  unfastened  his  scarf  and  collar  and  the  ends  of 
both  hung  in  disorder  on  his  breast. 

"You  say  it  is  something  important?"  he  mut- 
381 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

tered,  and  with  his  hand  he  made  a  pretext  of  shading 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,  William,  it  is  important,  as  I  see  it,"  she 
answered,  her  stare  on  the  floor,  her  bloodless 
hands  in  her  lap,  tightly  clasped.  "It  is  about — 
about  a  subject  we  have  not  mentioned  between  us 
lately." 

"I  think  I  understand/'  he  breathed  low.  "Then 
you  have  heard  from  him,  or  at  least  you  know  where 
he  went." 

1 '  Yes,  and  through  Michael, ' '  she  added.  ' '  Michael 
owed  him  some  money  and  so  he  searched  for  him 
till  finally—" 

"Oh!"  burst  eagerly  from  her  listener.  "Then  it 
was  not  the  detectives — not  the  police.  You  see — 
you  see,  I  thought — " 

"No,  he  is  safe  in  that  respect,  for  a  while,  at 
any  rate,"  Celeste  said.  "Michael  found  him  in  a 
retired  place  down  in  the  mountains  of  Georgia, 
and—" 

"Why,  I — I  thought  he  had  gone  abroad!"  and 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  sudden  uneasiness  in 
William's  tone.  ' '  But  you  say  he  is  still  here  in  this 
country?  Are  you  sure  about  that?" 

"Yes,  Michael  has  seen  and  talked  with  him. 
William,  Charlie  is  very  unhappy.  Don't  think 
that  he  is  complaining,  for  he  is  not,  but  a  new  life 
has  opened  out  before  him  and  he  is  still  young. 
William,  justice  must  be  done  to  him." 

The  hand-shade  fell  lower  over  William's  eyes, 
but  she  could  still  see  their  fixed  pupils  just  beneath 
the  flesh-line  of  his  palm. 

"Justice!"  he  gasped.  "Surely  you  are  not  going 
382 


to-  -to  hint  at  that  suspicion  of  yours  again.  Haven't 
I  shown  you — told  you  that  it  would  make  you 
miserable  for  life?" 

"It  is  not  merely  a  suspicion  now,  William,"  she 
said,  grimly.  "I  know  it  to  be  a  fact  that  Charlie  is 
wholly  innocent,  and  that  you —  But,  oh,  you  know 
what  I  mean!" 

Like  a  murderer  faced  by  skilled  accusers  con 
fident  of  his  guilt,  William  could  formulate  no  de 
nial.  His  sheer  silence  condemned  him,  that  and 
the  furtive  flight  of  his  eyes  from  object  to  object 
in  the  room.  They  reached  everything  except  her 
set  face.  He  and  she  were  silent  for  a  moment; 
then  William  spoke: 

"So  he  talked  to  Michael.  Probably  he  said  a 
lot  of  things  to  him,  and  Michael  has  come  back 
full  of— of— " 

"He  said  nothing  of  that  sort  to  Michael,"  Celeste 
corrected,  quickly.  "Charlie  is  still  true  to  his  agree 
ment  with  you.  He  lets  Michael  think  that  he 
did  it  when  under  the  influence  of  drink.  Michael 
hasn't  the  slightest  idea  that  another  is  to  blame." 

"I  see,  and  in  spite  of  all  this,  and  even  Charlie's 
confession  over  his  own  signature,  which  I  showed 
you,  you  still  hold  the  idea  that — " 

"Yes,  I  know  that  the  poor  boy  was  innocent, 
and  that  he  did  it  all — the  written  confession,  the 
going  away,  the  shouldering  of  the  disgrace  here, 
and  the  nameless  life  among  strangers  as  a  common 
laborer — he  did  all  that  for  your  sake  and  mine  and 
Ruth's.  Don't — don't  deny  it  any  more,  William — 
don't  lie  to  me!  I  won't  stand  for  it!  I  won't!  I 
won't!  I  can't!" 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

He  gave  in.  He  could  have  crawled  like  a  worm 
before  her  in  his  weltering  despair. 

"You  know  it  is  true,  don't  you,  William?"  There 
were  pity,  gentleness,  and  even  abiding  love  in  her 
tone. 

He  was  conquered.  He  covered  his  ashen  face 
with  his  gaunt  hands,  and,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  he  sat  leaning  forward,  dumb  and  undone. 
Then  she  told  him  his  brother's  story.  It  fell  from 
her  lips  like  the  sweet  consolation  of  a  consecrated 
nun  to  a  dying  penitent,  and  yet  it  rang  full  and 
firm  with  Heaven's  demand  for  justice.  With  a 
wand  of  flaming  truth  she  pointed  the  way — the 
only  way.  He  sobbed.  William  for  the  first  time 
sobbed  in  her  presence.  His  lips  hung  loose  and 
quivered  like  those  of  a  whimpering  child. 

"Have  you  realized  the  cost?"  he  asked,  presently. 
"Do  you  know  what  it  will  mean  to  you  and  to 
Ruth  ?  As  God  is  my  judge,  Lessie,  I  am  not  think 
ing  of  myself.  In  fact,  I  was  thinking  only  of  you 
when  I  olid  it!"  Here  he  made  a  confession  of  how 
he  had  prepared  to  kill  himself  that  she  might 
escape  the  long-drawn  publicity  of  his  trial,  and  how 
his  brother  had  thwarted  the  effort. 

"Yes,  I  realize  the  cost,"  Celeste  answered,  "but 
Ruth  and  I  must  pay  it.  It  seems  to  me  now  that 
a  greater  thing  in  God's  sight  than  paying  our  own 
debts  is  paying  the  debts  of  others.  Charlie  is 
trying  to  pay  our  debts,  but  he  shall  not.  William, 
he  shall  not.  You  are  dying  under  the  strain  that 
is  on  you.  It  is  God's  way  of  blighting  His  fruitless 
trees." 

"You  are  right,"  he  faltered.  "A  felon's  cell,  a 
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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

convict's  chains,  would  furnish  relief  compared  with 
the  tortures  I  have  been  enduring.  But  you  and 
the  baby — oh,  Lessie,  that  is  unbearable!  That 
thought  has  haunted  me  for  over  a  year." 

"I  know,  but  don't  think  of  it  now,"  she  said. 
"Act  at  once.  See  uncle  to-night  before  he  retires. 
He  is  still  in  the  library.  He  said  he  had  something 
to  read." 

"I'll  tell  him  at  the  bank  in  the  morning,"  Will 
iam  said.  "It  is  the  proper  place  for  it.  Yes,  yes, 
I'll  tell  him.  You  look  as  if  you  doubt  it,  but  I'll 
keep  my  word.  If  you  stop  to  think  of  it,  you  will 
see  that  there  is  nothing  else  to  do." 

"Wait!"  Celeste  rose  and  went  out  into  the  hall 
way.  She  leaned  over  the  balustrade  and  peered 
downward;  then  she  came  back.  "I  see  the  light 
in  the  library,"  she  said.  "He  is  there  now.  Go. 
It  must  be  settled  to-night.  I  am  holding  myself 
to  it  with  all  the  strength  of  my  soul.  I  am  afraid 
I  will  weaken.  Another  night  and  I  might.  Char 
lie's  rights  and  Ruth's  are  in  a  balance,  and  they 
are  seesawing  up  and  down.  Hurry!  Hurry!  Go 
this  minute!" 

He  rose  and  staggered  from  the  room.  Celeste 
sat  down  and  leaned  forward.  She  listened,  all  her 
soul  in  her  ears.  She  remembered  that  the  old  stairs 
had  a  harsh  habit  of  creaking  when  one  went  down 
or  up  them.  They  were  uttering  no  sound  now. 
Why?  she  wondered.  Softly  she  got  up  and  crept 
out  into  the  hall.  There  in  the  darkness  stood 
William  on  the  first  step,  a  hand  on  the  railing.  His 
face  was  turned  toward  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The 
narrow  strip  of  carpet  stretched  down  toward  the 

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THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

dim  light  below.  He  was  staring  at  the  light  as  if 
turned  to  stone  by  its  gruesome  import.  She  crept 
to  him,  touched  him  on  the  arm.  He  turned  his 
death-mask  of  a  face  to  her,  and  moved  his  flabby 
lips  soundlessly. 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 

"You  forget  one  thing,  Lessie."  His  voice  came 
now  in  a  rasping  whisper.  "You  forget  that  this 
thing  was  Charlie's  own  suggestion.  He  proposed  it. 
He  would  expect  me  to  live  up  to  it,  as  well  as  he 
himself.  You  mentioned  Ruth.  She  was  in  his 
mind  at  the  time,  as  well  as  you  and  me.  Then 
there^was  another  thing.  He  had — he  said  so  him 
self — he  had  disgraced  himself  here.  He  had  acted 
in  a  way  that  made  him  want  to  disappear,  never 
to  be  heard  of  again.  This  would  bring  all  that 
up  again.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would  want  the 
matter  to  rest  just  as  it  is." 

"Yes,  he  would,  and  for  that  very  reason  it  shall 
not,"  Celeste  flashed  out.  "He  loves  a  good  girl, 
and  she  loves  him.  If  you  are  silent  to-night  they 
will  be  parted  forever.  The  thing  is  killing  you; 
it  will  kill  me,  too.  Are  you  trying  to  force  me  to  be 
your  accomplice?" 

His  head  rocked  negatively  like  a  stone  poised 
on  a  pivot,  but  still  he  did  not  move  forward. 
Gently  she  caught  his  hand,  the  one  still  on  the 
railing,  and  as  she  did  so  his  fingers  automatically 
clutched  the  wood  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  falling 
down  the  stairs. 

"Ill  go,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I  was  wondering 
just  how  to  put  it  to  uncle.  He  will  be  humiliated 
in  a  peculiar  way.  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  it, 

386 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

but  he  has  all  along  felt  the — the  stigma  of  Charlie's- 
— of  what  he  thinks  Charlie  did — felt  it  so  keenly 
that  he  has  overdone  his — his  praise  of  me.  You 
understand — of  me.  He  has  boasted  of  my — my 
moral  stamina  and  ability  on  all  occasions,  in  that 
way,  you  see,  to  make  up  for  Charlie's — or  what  he 
thinks  was  Charlie's  bad  conduct.  It  will  upset 
him  terribly.  It  will  fill  him  with  chagrin,  for — 
for  I  and  the  bank  and  its  success  have  become  his 
very  life.  I  dread  the  effect  on  him.  He  is  old,  you 
know,  and  not  so  very  strong.  What  would  we 
do  if  it  were  to  result  disastrously — I  mean  to  him, 
you  understand?  If  Charlie  hadn't  done  this  thing 
of  his  own  accord — ' ' 

"Stop,  William,"  Celeste  said,  with  a  resolute 
sigh.  "I  see  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  do.  Let  me 
do  it.  I'll  know  what  to  say  perhaps  better  than 
you.  Besides,  if  you  consent  to  my  going  to  him 
it  will  be  the  same  as  if  you  did  it.  In  fact,  I'll  tell 
him  you  sent  me." 

"No,  I'll  have  to  put  it  through,"  said  William, 
suddenly.  He  barred  the  way  by  thrusting  his  dis 
engaged  hand  against  the  wall,  the  other  still  hold 
ing  on  to  the  balustrade.  "Go  to  your  room.  I'll 
attend  to  it." 

He  moved  forward  now,  and,  standing  still,  she 
saw  him  slowly  descend  the  stairs  and  vanish  at  the 
library  door.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  own  room. 
But  she  did  not  disrobe  nor  turn  on  the  light.  She 
remained  sitting  in  a  chair  at  a  window  through 
which  the  rays  of  a  street  lamp  fell.  She  would 
Wait  for  William's  return.  She  loved  him;  she  was 
sorry  for  him;  she  wanted  to  cry,  but  could  not. 

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CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WILLIAM  found  his  uncle  at  a  writing-table, 
sheets  of  paper  and  a  note-book  before  him, 
a  fountain-pen  in  his  hand.  He  looked  up  and 
smiled  a  pleasant  greeting.  ''Thought  you  had 
turned  in,"  he  chuckled,  softly.  "I  told  Lessie  I 
had  a  book  to  read,  but  it  wasn't  that,  really.  I've 
been  here  figuring  on  my  holdings.  I  love  to  do  it. 
It  makes  the  things  I've  fought  and  won  stand  out, 
you  see,  before  my  eyes,  as  you  might  say.  It  fur 
nishes  me  with  a  fresh  surprise  every  time  I  do  it. 
It  always  seems  bigger,  solider,  you  see.  Sit  down, 
my  boy;  take  a  cigar — there  are  several  pretty 
good  ones.  No,  you  won't?  I  see,  it  will  keep  you 
awake,  eh?  Well,  I  must  say  I  admire  it  in  you. 
The  best  business  men  are  careful,  and  you  are  one 
of  them.  I  owe  you  a  lot,  my  boy,"  he  went  on,  as 
William  sat  down  and  clasped  his  cold  knee-caps 
with  his  shaking  hands.  "Do  you  know  what  you 
did  for  me?  I  see;  you  are  too  modest  to  confess  it. 
Well,  you  actually  did  this:  I  had  practically  given 
up  the  financial  game.  I  was  trifling  my  time  and 
income  away  in  Europe  when  this  great  family 
trouble  clutched  me  and  pulled  me  back  into  harness. 
And  what  has  been  the  result?  Why,  I've  not  only 
enjoyed  the  game  of  defending  our  blood,  but  every 

388 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

venture  I  have  made  has  shoveled  gold  into  my 
bin." 

William  nodded.  He  could  not  find  his  voice. 
He  was  glad  that  his  uncle's  enthusiastic  face  was 
bent  over  his  writing. 

"And  don't  think  I  am  not  realizing  that  I'm 
no  longer  young,  either,"  the  steady  voice  went  on. 
"I'm  not  a  silly  fool.  I  sha'n't  claim  more  than 
ten  years  more  of  life,  at  the  furthest,  and  what  do 
you  think  I  expect  to  do  with  my  effects?  You  saw 
the  little  item  in  The  Transcript  the  other  day, 
stating  that  I  might  make  a  big  donation  to  several 
charitable  institutions?  I  know  you  must  have 
seen  it.  Well,  nothing  could  be  farther  from  my 
intentions.  I  am  going  to  leave  all  I  have  to  a  young 
fellow  that  I  think  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it. 
Of  course,  you  don't  know  who  I  mean,  Billy.  I 
didn't  think  I'd  ever  want  to  provide  for  any  par 
ticular  person,  but  when  I  got  back  from  Europe 
and  saw  you  haggard  and  unstrung,  putting  up 
practically  all  you  had  in  the  world  to  pull  our  name 
from  the  mire — well,  it  changed  me  on  the  spot. 
You  see,  it  was  a  quality  I  didn't  think  a  man  could 
have,  and  I'd  found  it  in  you." 

"Wait!    Stop,  please!"  William  gulped.   "I— I—" 

"Too  modest,  eh?"  the  old  man  laughed.  "Now 
you  keep  quiet.  I  am  holding  the  floor,  and  the  chair 
man  says  you  are  out  of  order.  Huh !  if  you  are  too 
modest  to  want  this  for  yourself,  think  of  your  wife 
and  child.  I've  grown  to  love  them  as  if  they  were 
child  and  grandchild  of  my  own.  I  want  to  see  them 
happy,  and  when  I  make  them  so  you  will  be,  too, 
Billy,  in  spite  of  the  rascally  thing  that  has  been 

389 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

done  to  you.  You  shall  be  president  of  the  bank; 
you  shall  run  the  whole  thing,  and  I'll  sit  back  and 
take  life  easy  to  the  end.  Do  you  know  that  old 
men  enjoy  life  more  than  the  young?  Well,  it  is 
true.  Aside  from  the  bad  conduct  of  your  brother 
— the  lasting  sting  of  it — there  is  nothing  in  my 
life  to  regret.  I  am  actually  happy  in  the  realiza 
tion  that  I  am  doing  so  much  for  the  happiness  of 
you  and  yours — and  mine.  Yes,  they  are  mine,  too." 

There  was  a  pause,  but  William  was  unable  to 
fill  it.  He  reached  out  and  took  one  of  the  cigars 
from  the  table;  he  struck  a  match  and  lighted  it, 
but  it  burnt  for  an  instant  only.  The  old  man  was 
looking  at  him  steadily.  "You  are  not  well  to-night, 
are  you,  Billy?"  he  asked,  in  a  sudden  swirl  of  affec 
tionate  concern. 

"No,  not  very,"  William  heard  himself  saying. 
"I— I—" 

"Well,  perhaps  you'd  better  turn  in,"  his  uncle 
suggested.  "This  is  your  day  of  rest,  you  know. 
Later  I'll  give  you  the  details  of  what  I  am  going 
to  do  for  you." 

"Uncle,"  said  William,  desperately,  standing  up 
and  leaning  forward  like  a  storm-blown  human  reed, 
"I  am  unworthy,  absolutely  unworthy  of — " 

"Bosh!  Go  to  bed!"  the  old  man  cried,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight.  "I'm  to  be  the  judge  of  worthi 
ness  in  this  case.  It  is  a  scarce  commodity  these 
days,  and  when  I  see  a  man  actually  trying  to  stave 
off  his  just  rewards— why,  he  is  a  miracle,  that's 
all — a  miracle  of  unselfishness!  Stupid,  think  of 
that  bonny  child  of  yours!  Don't  you  want  to  see 
her  take  her  proper  place  in  the  social  world?  What 

39<> 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

have  you  lived  and  toiled  for?  I'll  bet  Lessie  won't 
treat  this  thing  as  you  do.  I'll  bet  she  will  kiss  her 
old  uncle,  and — " 

William  lost  the  remainder  of  the  remark.  A 
sudden  sense  of  respite  brooded  over  him  like  a  pro 
tecting  cloud.  Had  he  the  right  now  to  step  be 
tween  his  wife  and  child  and  such  a  princely  inheri 
tance?  In  the  face  of  it  would  Lessie  herself  not 
feel  impelled  to  take  a  different  stand  ?  What  normal 
mother  would  not?  To  disillusion  the  old  idealist 
now  would  ruin  the  chances  of  a  good  woman  and 
a  helpless  child.  Yes,  at  any  rate,  he  told  himself, 
he  must  see  Celeste  and  lay  the  matter  in  its  new 
form  before  her. 

"Well,  I'll  go  up,"  he  said,  as  casually  as  was  in 
his  depleted  power.  "I'll  see  you  at  breakfast.  I — 
I  am  rather  tired." 

"Yes.  Good  night,  my  boy.  Sleep  will  do  you 
good." 

Somehow  William  had  the  odd  sense  of  being 
bodiless  as  he  ascended  the  stairs.  As  he  approached 
his  wife's  room  he  saw  the  handle  of  her  door  move, 
and  then  he  knew  that  she  was  standing  waiting 
for  him  just  inside  the  room.  They  faced  each  other 
in  the  deflected  flare  of  the  street  lamp.  She  reached 
out  and  took  his  hands  and  clung  to  them. 

"I've  been  listening.  I  expected  a  scene,  a  com 
motion,  but  I  heard  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  whis 
pered.  "It  must  have  simply  stunned  him.  The 
blow  was  too  deep  even  to  stir  his  fury." 

William  pressed  her  hands  convulsively,  appeal- 
ingly.  He  put  an  arm  around  her,  a  shaking,  half- 
palsied  arm. 

26  391 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

' '  Lessie, ' '  he  panted,  raspingly .  ' '  I  found  out  down 
there —  Wait,  wait!  Give  me  time."  He  cleared 
his  throat.  "I  found  out — •  It  was  like  this,  darling. 
You  know  how  rapidly  he  talks  at  times?  Well,  he 
wouldn't  give  me  a  chance  to  break  in;  and  finally 
he  told  me  something  that  made  me — forced  me  to 
feel  that  if  you  had  been  there —  I  mean — •" 

"What?  Go  on!  Go  on!"  Celeste  breathed 
quickly. 

"He  was  in  a  jolly  mood.  He  spoke  more  freely 
than  ever  before.  He  let  out  the  fact  that  he  is 
worth  several  millions  and  that  he  intends  to  leave 
it  all  to  us — I  mean  to  you  and  Ruth.  He  has  no 
idea  of  donating  anything  to  charity,  but  all  to  you 
two.  So  you  see — you  see,  it  put  me  where  I  simply 
had  to — to  lay  it  before  you.  It  strikes  me  as  a 
reasonable  idea  that  with  all  that  money  at  your 
disposal  you  could — why,  Lessie,  you.  could  make 
Charlie  rich,  and  surely  you  cannot  stand  between 
our  child  and  all  that  good  fortune.  Don't  you  see, 
dear?  The  truth  would  so  infuriate  uncle  that  he 
would — would  drop  us  all — you,  me,  Ruth,  Charlie 
— everybody!  Old  men  are  like  that;  they  can't 
seem  to  recuperate  after  such  a  blow.  I  didn't  tell 
him.  I  confess  I  didn't  even  mention  it,  for  it  was 
my  duty  to — to  show  you  how  matters  stand.  I'd 
not  be  a  natural  husband  and  father  if — if  I  had 
acted  otherwise.  We  have  got  in  this  awful  mess. 
How  are  we  going  to  get  out?  Remember,  dear, 
I  was  trying  to  earn  money  for  you  and  the  baby 
when  it  happened,  so  how  can  I  bear  to — to  think 
of  going  to  jail  and  leaving  you  penniless?  He  would 
be  mad  enough  to  send  me  to  jail,  dear;  he  is  just 

392 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

that  vindictive,  and  he  would  not  take  care  of  you 
two,  either.  You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  it  would 
make  him  the  laughing-stock  of  the  public,  and  he 
so  sensitive  and  hot-tempered.  You  see,  I  have 
forced  him  to  be  my  active  accomplice  in  covering  it 
all  up,  and  he  would  have  to  remain  silent  or  turn 
me  over  to  the  authorities.  Oh,  it  is  awful — awful! 
He  puts  such  a  high  and  unjust  value  on  me  that 
when  he  finds  he  has  been  fooled  he  will — why, 
he  won't  know  how  to  control  himself!  It  would  be 
like  him  to  leave  the  house  to-night — this  very 
night — and  go  to  a  hotel,  where  he  would  chatter 
even  to  the  bell-boys.  Think  of  Ruth — if  not  of 
me;  have  pity  on  that  sweet,  inoffensive  child." 

"Oh,  but  Charlie!  Charlie!"  Celeste  found  voice 
to  say. 

"But  don't  you  remember  that  Charlie  himself 
proposed  going  away?  Why,  he  was  down  and  out 
— sick  of  Boston  and  everything  in  it.  He  said  he 
never  wanted  to  come  back  or  to  be  heard  of  again. 
That  was  to  save  me — just  me — from — •from  trouble. 
Is  it  likely  that  he  would  be  willing  to  have  me — to 
have  any  of  us  take  a  step  like  this  now?  How  do 
you  know  that — that  he'd  like  to — to  have  his  old 
life  raked  up  again?  He  is  evidently  playing  a  part 
of  some  sort.  Have  we  the  right,  without  consulting 
him,  to  have  all  this  put  in  the  papers  and  flashed 
from  end  to  end  of  the  country?" 

Celeste  stood  like  a  statue,  cold  and  motionless, 
in  his  half-embrace.  The  dim  light  disclosed  her 
marble  cheek  to  his  sight.  Her  wide-open  eyes 
caught  the  flare  from  the  street  lamp  and  gave  it 
back  in  gleams  of  indecision. 

393 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"You  say  he  spoke  of  Ruth's  inheritance?"  she 
gasped. 

"More  of  her  than  you  or  me,"  said  William, 
grasping  at  the  straw.  "He  fairly  dotes  on  her.  But 
don't  think  he  would  stand  by  her  if — if  we  anger 
him  by  this  exposure.  He  would  hate  us  all,  Ruth 
along  with  us.  In  a  burst  of  fury  he  would  cut 
us  all  out.  Oh,  I  know  him,  Lessie,"  went  on 
William,  imbibing  hope  from  the  dead  stare  turned 
on  him.  "I  have  been  right  at  his  elbow  for 
over  a  year.  He  has  given  me  his  innermost 
thoughts." 

"I  know,"  Celeste  whispered.  "I've  noticed  it, 
and  knew  why  it  was.  He  looked  upon  you  as  a 
paragon  of  nobility  because  you — because  he  thought 
you  were  sacrificing  so  much  to  atone  for  Charlie's 
conduct.  He  told  me  once  that  it  had  given  him 
a  new  faith  in  men — that  he  had  not  thought  such 
a  thing  possible.  But  that  was  wrong — cursed  of 
God.  It  was  hypocrisy  as  black  as  the  lowest  vats 
of  hell.  And  I  helped  you  in  it.  I  feared  all  along 
that  my  intuition  was  telling  me  the  truth,  but  be 
cause  I  didn't  know  where  Charlie  was,  because  I 
thought  he  might  be  dead,  I  kept  silent.  But,  hus 
band,  it  is  different  now-— oh — oh !  so  different !  God 
has  sent  us  this  trial.  Charlie's  life  and  happiness 
are  at  stake.  If  we  are  untrue  he  will  bear  the  burden 
meant  for  us.  God  knows  he  has  suffered  enough  for 
his  boyish  escapades — that  has  been  proved  by  his 
throwing  off  his  old  habits  and  becoming  a  clean, 
decent,  and  ambitious  man.  He  loves  and  is  loved, 
and  yet  he  is  regarded  as  Ettle  more  than  a  tramp 
by  the  people  around  him.  William,  I  am  weak, 

394 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

wavering,  and  all  but  dying  under  this.     Whac  am 
I  to  do?" 

He  put  both  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  turned 
her  face  directly  to  his,  and  went  on,  reassuringly: 
"Go  to  bed,  darling.  Let  it  be  as  it  is.  Remember 
I  gave  promise  to  Charlie  not  to  follow  him  up.  He 
was  to  be  free  forever.  Go  to  bed,  dear.  This  is  a 
tempest  in  a  teapot.  You  are  all  wrought  up  and 
nervous.  You'd  never  forgive  yourself  for  stepping 
in  between  our  child  and  her  rightful  inheritance. 
Think  of  that.  How  would  you  like  to  be  treated 
that  way  just  to  satisfy  some  one  else's  finical  qualms 
as  to  right  and  wrong?" 

She  allowed  him  to  push  her  toward  her  bed,  and 
for  no  obvious  reason  other  than  physical  weakness 
she  sat  upon  it,  her  staring  eyes  still  fixed  upon  his 
insistent  face.  He  thought  his  case  was  won.  He 
bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  He  tried  to  raise 
her  chin  that  his  lips  might  put  the  seal  of  frailty 
upon  hers,  but  she  resisted  him  firmly,  inexorably. 
This  gave  him  pause.  All  the  terrors  of  his  moribund 
being  gathered,  screaming  and  threatening,  from  the 
nooks  and  crannies  into  which  they  had  but  tem 
porarily  fled. 

"Don't  you — can't  you  see  it  as — as  I  do?"  he 
pleaded,  still  trying  to  lift  her  chin,  and  realizing 
his  defeat  even  in  that  small  failure. 

"No !"  That  was  all  she  said,  but  it  was  more  than 
enough. 

He  stood  away  from  her.  Indescribable  contin 
gencies  now  waxing  into  grim  certainties  hurtled 
about  him — exposure,  a  felon's  cell,  the  visible  hatred 
of  the  man  who  had  so  completely  trusted  him. 

395 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"No!"  Celeste  repeated,  firmly.  "There  can  be 
only  one  course  to  take,  and  that  is  the  right  one 
— right  if  it  kills  us  all.  You  can't  tell  him.  I 
must  do  it.  He  is  still  down  there." 

"Is  this  final?" 

"Yes,  final,"  she  said,  and  stood  up.  He  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  stop  her;  it  ended  by  his  dropping 
his  limp  arms  to  his  sides.  His  lips  moved,  but  pro 
duced  no  sound.  She  left  the  room  first,  and  he  fol 
lowed.  Together  they  leaned  over  the  balustrade 
and  peered  at  the  light  below.  Then  she  drew  her 
self  erect  and  started  down  the  stairs.  He  watched 
her  till  she  was  half-way  down,  then  turned  into 
his  room. 

She  reached  the  library  door.  She  saw  the  old 
man  still  bent  over  his  calculations,  a  glow  of  satis 
faction  on  his  pink  face.  She  heard  him  chuckle. 
No  doubt  he  was  thinking  of  Ruth's  good  fortune. 
She  was  about  to  enter  when  a  grim  thought  sud 
denly  clutched  her  as  if  in  a  vise.  How  strangely 
William  had  acted  as  they  were  parting  up-stairs! 
Once  before  he  had  started  to  end  his  life.  Would 
he  be  so  desperate  now?  Why  not?  The  crisis  was 
even  greater.  She  turned  quickly,  and,  holding  her 
breath,  she  darted  back  up  the  stairs  and  tiptoed 
into  William's  room.  He  was  standing  at  his  bureau. 
She  heard  a  hard  substance  strike  against  one  of 
the  smaller  drawers  as  he  turned  to  face  her.  Dart 
ing  to  him,  she  grasped  his  arm  and  slid  her  fingers 
down  to  the  revolver  he  was  clutching. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  do  that — would  you,  dear?" 
she  panted,  as  she  wrung  the  weapon  from  his  grasp. 

His  silence  was  his  answer.  He  stepped  back  from 
396 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

her.  He  had  steeled  himself  for  the  su^.^eme  shock 
of  death.  How  could  he  summon  mere  words  at 
this  ultimate  moment? 

"I  see,  I  see!"  she  moaned,  and  she  was  sure  now 
that  she  loved  him  in  his  weakness  as  a  mother  might 
love  her  child  that  was  blind,  crippled,  and  in  un 
ending  pain.  She  put  the  weapon  into  the  bosom  of 
her  dress,  and,  with  her  hands  outstretched,  she 
cried:  "I  didn't  tell  him,  darling.  I  hurried  back 
to  you  when  I  thought — thought — 'thought  of  this. 
Something  else  must  be  done.  Charlie  wouldn't  be 
willing  to  murder  you.  It  was  to  prevent  this  that 
he  went  away." 

Her  hands  were  around  his  neck.  He  was  still 
under  the  chill  spell  of  the  ordeal  he  had  faced. 
She  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him  again 
and  again  on  the  lips,  as  if  to  restore  life's  breath 
to  him. 

"Yes,  something  else — but  not  this,1'  she  ran  on. 
"We'll  see — we'll  see,  sweetheart.  If  Charlie  were 
here  he'd  stop  you — he  would — he  would,  and  so 
must  I.  I  see,  you  couldn't  face  it  all,  could  you, 
dear?  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that  sooner. 
Some  one  has  said  that  God  never  puts  more  on  us 
than  we  can  bear,  and  that  is  why  He  turned  me 
back  to  you  when  He  did.  Now,  now,  we  can  go  to 
sleep,  can't  we,  darling  boy?" 

"Oh,  it  was  wonderful — glorious — ecstatic!"  he 
muttered  as  if  to  himself,  his  blank  stare  fixed  on 
the  space  beyond  her.  "I  was  afraid — afraid — 
afraid  as  I  put  my  hand  in  the  drawer  and  felt  it 
like  the  icy  foot  of  a  corpse;  but  when  I  had  hold 
of  it—" 

397 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"What -"are  you  saying,  darling?"  Celeste  asked, 
fearfully.  " 

"I'll  never  invest  in  stocks  again.  Down,  down, 
down,  and  the  money  not  my  own.  I'll  be  caught. 
I  can't  hide  it.  The  examiners  will  come  and  look 
me  in  the  eye,  and — " 

"Oh,  what  is  it,  dear?"  Celeste  moaned,  and, 
catching  his  arm,  she  shook  him. 

"When  I  had  hold  of  it,"  he  wandered  on,  vacant 
ly,  ' '  something  said — out  of  the  very  darkness  down 
where  he  and  my  wife  were  settling  my  fate — some 
thing  said:  'Don't  be  afraid — it  is  nothing.  It  will 
be  only  a  pinprick  and  you'll  be  free.'  And  I  was 
free.  I  saw — I  saw — I  heard — I  heard — I  felt — 
yes,  that  is  it,  I  felt  as  a  man  feels  when  he  is  said 
to  be  dead  and  no  living  soul  knows  of  the  great 
change  but  himself." 

"Oh,  William  darling,  yen  rre  ill — you  are — " 

"Good  boy,  Charlie!  Bully  toy,  my  brother! 
You  were  true  as  steel — you  knew  it  hc.d  gone  down, 
down,  down  to  the  bottom  of  hell  itself  and  so  you 
ran  away.  But  I  was  left  with  it,  brother  mine. 
I  was  in  a  vat  filled  with  black,  smirking  imps. 
Every  day  I  fought  with  them,  every  night.  But 
I'm  glad  now.  Are  you  dead,  too?  Is  that  light,  or 
is  it —  Who  ever  heard  of  light  and  music  being 
the  same  thing?  It  is  even  more  than  that,  eh, 
Charlie?  It  is  language — the  cosmic  speech  of  the 
universe,  and  we  are  in  a  sea  of  eternal  bliss." 

Celeste,  wordless  now,  took  his  face  between  her 
trembling  hands  and  tried  to  turn  it  toward  her 
own,  but  it  was  immovable.  He  was  chucklingr 
laughing,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  space.  Dropping 

398 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

her  hands,  Celeste  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and,  like  a  hysterical  woman  giving  an  alarm  of 
fire,  she  called  out: 

"Oh,  uncle — come  quickly!    Quick!    Quick!" 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
darted  from  the  library  and  plunged  up  the  stairs. 

"Quick!  Quick!"  she  cried  back,  and  vanished 
from  his  view.  He  found  her  standing  over  her 
husband,  who  was  now  seated  on  his  bed.  Hearing 
his  step,  William  uttered  a  low,  chuckling  laugh, 
and,  staring  at  him,  said: 

' '  Here  you  are  again,  Charlie.  I  missed  you.  That 
cloud — that  dazzling  white  cloud — seemed  to  come 
between  us.  I  ran  back  to,  see  Ruth  and  Lessie. 
Ruth  was  asleep,  and  when  children  are  asleep  they 
ride  on  the  clouds — so  a  spirit  told  me.  But  Lessie 
was  awake,  standing  over,  over  it — you  know  what 
I  mean,  over  the  body  that  held  me  so  long.  Oh, 
I  wish  she  would  hide  it !  Uncle  was  there,  too, 
Charlie  boy.  Never  could  make  the  old  doubter 
understand  this,  eh,  Charlie?  At  first  it  was  strange 
to  us,  too,  eh?  Wonderful,  wonderful!  I  hear  my 
old  leathery  tongue  trying  to  describe  it  now.  How 
funny!" 

"William,  what  is  the  matter?"  the  old  man  asked, 
bending  over  him. 

William  looked  at  him  closely;  he  put  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  went  on,  chuckling:  "Oh,  I  see 
it  is  you,  uncle.  I  want  to  tell  you.  You  needn't 
be  afraid  of  dying,  as  I  was  all  my  life.  I  held  it 
right  over  my  heart  and  pulled  the  trigger.  There 
was  a  flash,  a  little,  tiny  tickling  sting,  and  then 
Charlie  and  I —  I'll  never  invest  in  stocks  again. 

399 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

It  seemed  very  easy  to  pile  up  all  that  for  Lessie  and 
the  baby.  Down,  down,  down —  Every  morning 
at  breakfast  I  faced  them  with  those  figures  on  my 
brain  like  the  slimy  tracks  of  coffin  snails.  Down, 
down  to  doom!  to  doom — that's  it,  to  my  doom!" 

The  old  man  stood  erect.  He  moved  to  a  window. 
His  niece  followed  him  like  a  praying  shadow.  Their 
eyes  met. 

"I  am  the  cause  of  it,"  she  said.  "I  tried  to  force 
him  to  confess  to  you  that  he  was  to  blame,  and  not 
Charlie.  He  tried  to  use  this,"  taking  the  revolver 
from  her  bosom,  "while  I  went  down  to  tell  you." 

"He,  and  not  Charlie!"  the  old  man  exclaimed, 
with  a  fixed  stare. 

"Say  what  you  like,  do  what  you  like,"  she  said, 
harshly,  fiercely,  recklessly,  her  white  lip  curled  in 
a  sneer.  "He  said  you  would  put  him  in  jail.  I 
wonder  if  you  will — I  wonder.  I  would  give  my 
life  for  him.  We  don't  want  your  money — under 
stand  that.  What  living  man  has  not  sinned?  and 
he  did  it  for  love.  Don't  you  dare  to  accuse — 
abuse  him.  He  is  down  now  and  dying,  perhaps." 

With  his  eyes  on  the  bent  form  on  the  bed,  the 
old  man  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  "Oh,  my  God,  this 
is  awful — awful!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "Well, 
there  is  but  one  thing  to  do." 

Turning,  he  suddenly  left  the  room.  There  was 
a  telephone  in  the  hallway,  just  outside  the  door, 
and  he  went  to  it.  He  took  up  the  directory  and 
then  turned  on  the  electric  light.  His  hands  shook 
as  he  fumbled  the  pages.  The  book  fell  to  the  floor. 
He  picked  it  up.  His  old  face  seemed  withered  like 
crinkled  parchment. 

400 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I  can't  find  it!"  he  groaned.  "My  God!  have 
mercy!  It  is  awful — awful!" 

Celeste  was  at  his  side.  Like  an  infuriated  tigress 
defending  her  young,  she  glared  into  his  face,  and 
all  but  snarled:  "Do  it,  do  it,  if  you  dare — and  we'll 
hate  you,  despise  you,  curse  your  name!  I'll  teach 
Ruth  to  spit  on  your  grave." 

"Lessie,  Lessie,  my  child — my  poor  child!  Do 
you  object  to  my — " 

"Object?  Would  you  send  him  to  jail  when  his 
reason  is  wrecked  through  fear  of  vou — when  he  is 
dying?" 

"Why,  Lessie,  Lessie,  darling  child,  did  you  think 
that?  Why,  I  am  telephoning  for  the  doctor,  that 
is  all.  I  love  William  and  pity  him  as  much  as  you 
do.  We  must  save  him,  child,  we  must  save  him!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ABOUT  a  week  later  Tobe  Keith  was  brought 
back  to  Carlin  from  Atlanta.  He  was  able 
to  walk  through  the  streets  from  the  station  to  his 
home.  The  news  reached  Kenneth  and  Martin  as 
they  were  working  in  the  cotton-fields.  The  bearer 
of  the  tidings  said  that  the  sheriff  himself  had  asked 
that  they  be  informed.  Charles  was  at  work  close 
by,  and,  tossing  his  straw  hat  into  the  air,  Kenneth 
ran  toward  him,  followed  by  Martin,  who  was  all 
aglow  with  joy. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  so,"  Charles  said,  when  he 
was  informed  of  the  good  news. 

With  his  hat  swinging  at  his  side,  Kenneth  held 
out  his  hand  to  him.  "I  want  to  thank  you,"  he 
said,  in  a  manly  tone.  ''You  did  it,  Brown." 

And  Martin  chimed  in,  a  hand  outstretched  also: 
"Yes,  you  did  it.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  he  would 
have  stayed  here  and  died.  Sister  says  so." 

Flushing  red,  Charles  was  unable  to  deny  the 
part  he  had  played,  though  still  unable  fully  to  ex 
plain  it.  At  this  instant  they  saw  Mary  coming 
down  the  path. 

"She's  heard,  too,"  Martin  chuckled.  "It  lifts 
a  load  off  her  mind — an  awftil  load  of  worry.  She 
was  always  afraid  there  would  be  an  unfavorable 

402 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

turn  down  there.  And  they  say  Tobe  is  friendly  to 
us." 

The  two  boys  went  on  to  meet  their  sister,  but 
Charles,  feeling  that  he  had  no  valid  reason  for 
following  them,  resumed  his  work  with  his  hoe  in 
the  cotton.  Several  minutes  passed.  His  back  was 
turned  to  the  trio  on  the  path  and  he  was  constantly 
working  away  from  them.  Presently  he  heard  the 
soft  swishing  of  a  starched  skirt  against  the  cotton- 
plants  and  Mary  was  at  his  side.  Looking  up,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  her  countenance  overcast  with 
a  look  of  depression. 

"They've  gone  over  to  Dodd's  to  tell  father," 
she  said.  "They  are  very,  very  happy." 

"But  you — ?"  and  he  leaned  on  his  hoe.  "You 
don't  seem —  Has  anything  gone  wrong?  Was  it 
— a  false  report,  after  all?" 

"Oh  no,  it  is  true  enough."  She  took  a  deep, 
lingering  breath  and  released  it  in  a  sigh.  "But  the 
man  that  brought  the  news  about  Tobe  told  me 
something  else — something  that  everybody  in  the 
neighborhood  seems  to  know.  Charlie,  the  sheriff 
has  sent  those  men  back  to  watch  you  again.  They 
were  seen  hiding  in  the  woods  on  the  hillside.  They 
are  watching  us  even  now.  I  thought  that  was  all 
off,  but  they  say  the  sheriff  has  had  fresh  instruc 
tions  from  the  East.  The  men  he  is  after  are  hid 
ing  somewhere  in  this  part  of  the  state,  and  he 
seems  to  think  they  are  here  in  the  mountains  and 
that  Tobe  Keith  and  you  know  something  about 
them." 

Charles  looked  toward  the  hillside  indicated,  and 
then  drew  his  lingering  eyes  back  to  hers.  He  was 

403 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

slightly  pale;  his  lips  were  dfawn  tight  in  chagrin. 
He  made  a  failure  of  a  smile  of  indifference. 

"I  thought  that  was  over,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
the  sheriff  had  turned  his  attention  elsewhere.  But 
it  can't  be  helped.  You  ought  not  to  have  taken 
me  in.  I  ought  not  to  have  stopped  here  at  all." 

"Don't  talk  that  way!"  Mary  commanded,  with 
desperate  warmth.  "What  are  we  going  to  do  about 
it?  I  want  the  truth.  I  know  you  are  bound  by 
honor,  as  you  say,  but  as  far  as  you  are  able  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  to  expect.  If  he  arrests 
you — well,  what  then?" 

Charles  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  soil  his  hoe  had 
turned  up  and  the  weeds  he  had  cut.  His  fine  face 
was  stamped  with  the  misery  that  permeated  his 
being  like  an  absorbent  fluid.  "If  he  arrests  me  he 
will  want  me  to  do  the  impossible,"  he  said.  "He 
will  want  me  to  show  who  and  what  I  am.  I've  tried 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  no  past  that  I  can  bring  up 
even — even  to  stand  well  in  your  sight.  I  shall  say 
nothing  to  him.  I  don't  think  the  law  would  let 
him  torture  me  bodily,  but  my  silence  will  be  ground 
enough  to  confirm  his  suspicions.  A  man  who  has 
been  the  daily  associate  of  a  bunch  of  circus  crooks, 
and  who  refuses  to  show  his  record  to  an  officer  of 
the  law,  will  stand  a  poor  show." 

"I  wonder — couldn't  you  escape?  But,  oh,  I 
don't  want  you  to  leave!  I  couldn't  bear  that." 

"I  thought  of  escape  when  they  were  hanging 
round  before,"  he  answered,  with  a  pale,  frank 
smile,  "but  gave  it  up.  Such  men  would  be  hard 
to  get  away  from,  now  that  they  are  on  guard,  and, 
besides,  to  try  it  would  be  a  confession  that  I  am 

404 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

guilty  of  what  they  charge.  No,  I'll  have  to  let 
them  have  their  way  about  it.  The  men  they  are 
after  are  a  dangerous  lot  and  ought  to  be  appre 
hended." 

"Listen  to  me,  Charlie,"  and  Mary,  in  her  earnest 
ness,  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "I  know  something 
— a  little  something — of  all  this,  and  you  need  not 
deny  it.  You  are  trying  to  protect  some  one  else 
in  some  way.  I  know  it;  I  feel  it;  I've  been  sure 
of  it  for  some  time." 

"I  am  sony,  but  I  can  tell  you — even  you — 
nothing,"  he  replied,  and  the  words  came  out  with 
a  low  groan.  "I'm  glad  you  think  so  well  of  me.  It 
is  the  only  good  thing  that  has  come  my  way  in  a 
long  time,  but  you  mustn't  care  for  me  deeply,  very 
deeply,  for  that  would  mar  your  future.  You  know 
what  I  think  of  you,  but  I  have  no  right  to  mention 
it.  Your  father  is  right  in  warning  you,  as  I  know 
he  has  done;  he  shows  it  in  the  strange,  half -fearful 
way  he  now  speaks  to  me." 

She  averted  her  face;  her  eyes  were  moist;  her 
exquisite  lips  were  quivering  like  those  of  a  weeping 
child.  ' '  I  must  go, "  she  murmured.  ' '  I  am  sure  they 
are  watching  us." 

"Yes,  don't  stay."  He  took  up  his  hoe  and  be 
gan  to  work  as  she  turned  to  go. 

She  hesitated  and  stood  still.  "The  sheriff  talks 
freely  to  father,"  she  said.  "In  fact,  I  think  father 
went  over  to  Dodd's  to  meet  him.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  to  tell  you  this,  but  you  might  hear  it  and  not 
understand.  Father  liked  you  all  along  till — "  She 
broke  off,  at  a  loss  for  words  sufficiently  delicate  to 
express  her  meaning. 

405 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

' '  Till  the  good  old  man  found  that  I  was  a  menace 
under  his  roof,"  Charles  put  in,  bitterly.  "That's 
what  I  am,  Miss  Row — " 

"Stop!"  she  suddenly  cried  out.  "Have  you  lost 
consideration  for  my  feelings?  Am  I  to  count  for 
nothing  in  this  matter?  What  if  you  can't  reveal 
everything  to  me?  I  don't  care.  To  me  you  are  the 
soul  of  honor;  to  me  you  are  the  noblest,  most 
abused  man  on  earth.  Charlie,  I'll  stand  by  you; 
I'll  go  with  you  if  they  put  you  in  jail.  They  can't 
punish  you  without  punishing  me.  I've  told  my 
father  so.  My  brothers  know  how  I  feel.  That  is 
why  father — as  I  started  to  say — is  so  worried.  He 
doesn't  know  what  to  do.  He  has  his  pride;  he 
loves  me,  wants  to  protect  me,  and  does  not  know 
which  way  to  turn." 

"And  there  is  nothing  I  can  do,  as  I  see  it," 
Charles  groaned,  leaning  on  his  hoe,  his  great, 
famished  eyes  on  hers.  "If  it  would  help,  I'd  gladly 
kill  myself,  but  my  death  would  prove  nothing 
but  my  cowardice  and  confirm  them  in  their  sus 
picions." 

She  stepped  back  to  him.  She  laid  her  slender, 
tapering  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  face 
steadily.  "Yes,  you  are  too  brave  for  that,"  she 
faltered,  giving  her  proud  head  a  little-  shake  of 
emphasis.  "I've  never  been  afraid  of  that.  You, 
like  myself,  were  born  to  suffer,  it  seems,  but  we 
will  stand  up  under  it,  won't  we?  Let  them  all 
do  their  worst;  it  won't  kill  us,  for  we  love  each 
other,  don't  we,  Charlie?" 

He  lowered  his  uncovered  head;  his  grim,  ashen 
face  was  wrung  as  from  deathly  pain. 

406 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"We  love  each  other,  don't  we,  Charlie?"  she 
repeated,  entreatingly. 

A  shudder  shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  "How 
can  I  be  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  asked,  "when 
I  know  that  it  is  your  ruin  and  that  I  brought  it 
on  you?  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  how  I  feel — 
how  I've  felt  ever  since  I  kissed  you  that  night  in 
the  parlor  and  you  lay  so  willingly  in  my  arms  and 
hung  about  my  accursed  neck.  What  can  I  do — 
what  in  the  name  of  God,  my  tormentor?  Shall  I 
throw  my  sacred  promise  to  the  winds  and  laugh 
in  the  face  of — of — ?" 

"No!"  she  cried  out.  "No,  for  I'd  be  doing  it. 
I'd  be  your  evil  temptress.  Be  yourself,  Charlie — 
be  what  you  were  before  I  met  you.  I  think  I  know 
— 'you  are  selling  yourself  for  some  one  else  as  I  was 
willing  to  do  when  my  brothers  were  in  danger. 
Don't  let  me  tempt  you — don't  let  anything  tempt 
you.  God  brought  me  out  of  my  darkness — by 
your  aid  He  brought  me  out.  He  only  knows 
what  my  awful  struggle  was  when  I  was  ready  to 
go  to  that  repulsive  man  as  his  wife  with  your  image 
locked  in  my  breast — with  my  desire  for  you  wrapped 
around  my  soul.  God  helped  me;  surely  He  will 
help  you.  What  are  earthly  troubles  for  if  they  are 
not  to  be  conquered,  trampled  under  foot,  as  we 
mount  to  the  heights  to  which  we  are  destined? 
You  shall  not  tell  me  anything.  I  know  your  soul,  and 
that  is  enough." 

She  turned  quickly  and  moved  away.  He  saw 
the  heads  of  her  brothers  as  they  wended  their  way 
toward  Dodd's  through  the  tall  waving  corn.  How 
steadily,  how  erectly  she  walked  toward  the  old 

27  407 


THE   HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

mansion  of  her  forebears !  He  noted  the  tiny  marks 
of  her  shoes  in  the  soil  at  his  feet.  He  could  have 
kissed  them;  he  could  have  fallen  on  his  knees 
before  them  in  reverent,  worshipful  humility. 

Charles  worked  on  till  the  cool,  creeping  shadows 
of  the  mountains  told  him  that  the  sun  was  down. 
Then  he  shouldered  his  hoe  and  listlessly  trudged 
homeward.  He  heard  Kenneth  and  Martin  singing 
as  they  returned  through  the  corn.  It  was  a  negro 
plantation  melody,  somehow  maddening  now  in  its 
trustful  suggestion  of  joy.  He  saw  the  boys  come 
out  into  the  path.  They  were  arm  in  arm,  full  of 
happiness,  full  of  the  ebullient  consciousness  of  their 
release.  He  smiled  grimly.  He  told  himself  that 
their  nightmare  had  passed,  while  his  was  an  abiding 
reality.  He  must  be  the  exception  that  proved  the 
rule  of  life's  cosmic  harmony.  Some  things  could 
be  borne  with  a  smile.  A  man  might  die  for  his 
friend,  and  jest  as  the  black  cap  muffled  his  lips; 
a  man  might  sing  as  he  was  being  vivisected  for  a 
good  cause;  but  this — this  fate  belonged  to  no  im 
aginable  category  of  tortures.  He  had  won  the 
heart  of  an  angel  and  was  forced  to  wear  the  garb 
of  an  outcast  in  the  kingdom  which  was  her  rightful 
abode. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

left  his  hoe  in  the  barn  and  started 
toward  the  front  of  the  house.  Was  he  mis 
taken,  or  did  he  see  a  group  of  three  men  near  the 
steps?  Yes,  and  Rowland  was  one  of  them.  As  he 
passed  through  the  gate  he  noted  the  big  revolvers 
belted  around  the  waists  of  the  strangers.  They 
were  strong,  well-built,  sturdy  men  of  the  mountains 
in  broad-brimmed  felt  hats.  They  evidently  saw 
him,  eyed  him  steadily  as  he  came  up  the  walk,  and 
stood  aside  silently  as  he  fearlessly  ascended  the 
steps.  He  thought  they  were  going  to  arrest  him, 
had  no  sense  of  objection  to  it,  and  was  surprised 
when  they  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  As  for  Row 
land,  he  simply  nodded  coldly  and  Charles  went  on 
up  to  his  room. 

He  went  to  a  window.  It  was  open  and  he  heard 
the  mumbled  voices  of  the  men  below,  but  could 
not  see  them.  He  stood  listening. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  right,  Colonel,"  one  of  the  men  said. 
"You've  done  all  you  can  do.  The  sheriff  thinks  the 
thing  looks  shaky,  and  he  wants  to  be  on  the  safe 
side.  There  is  a  big  reward  out  for  those  chaps  and 
he  thinks  the  fellow  that  was  so  free  with  his  money 
in  Tobe  Keith's  case,  and  your  man  that  was  with 
him  at  the  time,  are  two  of  them." 

40Q 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"I've  heard  all  that  from  the  sheriff  himself," 
Rowland  answered.  "You  may  think  it  strange  of 
us,  but  we  are  all  willing  to  trust  Mr.  Brown.  He 
has  done  good  work  here,  and  has  been  more  than 
a  friend." 

"But  you  say  yourself,  Colonel,  that  you  don't 
know  a  thing  about  him,"  came  the  answer.  "You 
don't  know  where  he  comes  from,  what  his  connec 
tions  are,  or  anything." 

"That's  all  true,"  Rowland  admitted,  wearily. 
"I've  never  believed  in  prying  into  the  private  affairs 
of  people.  He  is  doing  for  us  more  than  he  agreed 
to  do,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  an  educated  gentleman 
who  may  have  met  with  misfortune  of  some  sort. 
I've  never  thought  he  was  a  happy  man,  and  I've 
been  sorry  for  him.  I  wish  I  could  befriend  him; 
and  if  you  will  give  me  a  chance — " 

Charles  listened  no  longer.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  as  to  what  he  would  do.  Turning,  he  went 
deliberately  down-stairs  and  out  to  the  group.  They 
looked  at  him  in  surprise  as  he  approached,  and 
appeared  to  be  somewhat  abashed. 

"Gentlemen,"  Charles  began,  calmly,  "pardon 
rne  for  interrupting  your  conversation,  but  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  you  are  here  on  my  account. 
Am  I  right?" 

"Well,  yes,"  one  of  the  men  said,  awkwardly,  as 
he  shifted  from  one  of  his  heavily  booted  feet  to  the 
other.  "You  see,  we  are  deputies  under  the  sheriff's 
orders." 

"I  thought  so,"  Charles  answered,  "and  I've  come 
to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  The  fact  that  you  are  watch 
ing  me  under  this  gentleman's  roof  is  very  mortify- 

410 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

ing  to  me,  for  I  respect  his  kindness  and  his  hospi 
tality,  and  I  want  to  ask  if  there  is  any  reason  why 
you  may  not  arrest  me  and  take  me  elsewhere?" 

The  question  astounded  them.  The  two  men  ex 
changed  swift  glances  of  inquiry.  "Why — why,  we 
have  had  no  such  orders,  you  see,"  the  deputy  stam 
mered.  "We  are  only  doing  as  we  were  directed." 

"But  a  man  has  a  right  to  decent  treatment  before 
he  is  proved  guilty  of  a  charge,"  Charles  went  on, 
"and  this  constant  shadowing  of  this  house  because 
I  am  here  is  not  fair  to  me  or  the  family.  I  am  a 
laborer  on  this  place — that  and  nothing  more — and 
I  demand  that  you  either  withdraw  from  these  prem 
ises  or  take  me  with  you  for  safekeeping." 

Charles  heard  a  gasp  behind  him,  and  saw  Mary- 
standing  in  the  doorway,  pale  as  death  and  trem 
bling. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  she  cried,  and  she  came 
forward  and  caught  the  arm  of  her  lover.  "You 
are  not  going !  You  are  not !" 

"Daughter!  Daughter!"  Rowland  protested,  in 
a  sinking  voice,  "be  careful — be  careful!  Daughter, 
be  careful!" 

"He  is  not  going!"  she  repeated.  "It  is  a  shame, 
an  outrage!  Father,  if  he  goes,  I  go.  Understand 
that  for  once  and  all." 

An  awkward  pause  ensued.  Charles  stood  like 
a  man  of  granite,  his  head  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  deputies;  across  his  face  the  whip  of  pain  had 
left  its  mark. 

"We  have  no  orders,'*  said  the  man  who  had 
spoken  before,  "except  to  hang  around  here  and  see 
if  that  friend  of  yours  comes  back,  or  any  other  sus- 

411 


THE   HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

picious  stranger.  We  can't  take  you  till  we  have 
orders,  and  we  can't  let  up  on  our  guard,  either. 
There  are  four  of  us — two  for  night,  and  two  for 
day  work." 

Rowland  looked  at  his  daughter  wistfully.  There 
was  a  suggestion  of  slow  rising  emotion  in  his 
wrinkled  face  as  he  spoke. 

"Tell  Sheriff  Frazier  for  me,  boys,  that  I  will 
furnish  a  bond  for  any  amount  in  Mr.  Brown's 
behalf,  and  that  I  hope  he  will  do  what  Mr.  Brown 
wishes  in  regard  to  lifting  this — this  surveillance." 

"Mr.  Rowland,"  Charles  cried  out,  urgently, 
"you  mustn't  do  that.  I  don't  deserve  it  at  your 
hands.  I'm  a  stranger  without  a  dollar  to  my 
name." 

"He  does  deserve  it,  father.  You  are  right," 
said  Mary,  as  she  swept  to  her  father's  side  and 
locked  her  arm  in  his.  "He  is  the  best  and  truest 
friend  we  ever  had,  and  you  will  never  regret  this." 

The  old  white  head  rocked  up  and  down  deliber 
ately.  "Yes,  tell  the  sheriff  what  I  said,  and  do  it 
at  once  if  possible." 

"One  of  us  will  see  him  right  away,"  was  the 
deputy's  answer,  as  both  of  them  clattered  down  the 
steps  and  strode  toward  the  gate. 

Charles  started  forward  as  if  to  utter  a  further 
protest,  but  Mary  sprang  to  his  side. 

1 '  Hush !' '  she  cried.  ' '  Father  wants  to  do  this.  Let 
him !  It  is  a  poor  enough  return  for  what  you  have 
done  for  us." 

Turning  suddenly,  as  if  to  hide  her  emotion, 
she  went  into  the  house.  Rowland  and  Charles 
stood  facing  each  other  in  the  gathering  dusk.  From 

412 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

the  direction  of  the  kitchen  came  the  singing  voices 
of  Kenneth  and  Martin,  who  were  unconscious  of 
the  tragedy  being  enacted  so  close  at  hand.  There 
was  a  light  rising  into  the  old  face  of  the  planter 
which  Charles  had  never  seen  there  before.  Row 
land  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  let  it  He 
there  gently,  almost  tenderly. 

"You  have  won  the  heart  of  my  daughter,"  he 
began.  "She  is  the  image  of  her  mother,  and  the 
man  who  has  such  a  love  has  all  the  world  can  give 
that  is  worth  having.  I  congratulate  you,  sir.  For 
her  sake  I  must  make  your  cause  my  own.  You 
have  helped  me  free  my  sons ;  you  must  help  me  save 
my  daughter.  She  could  not  survive  your  downfall — 
I  know  that  because  I  knew  her  mother.  Tell  me, 
as  a  man  facing  a  man,  are  these  charges  true?" 

"They  are  not.    I  swear  they  are  not." 

"Thank  God!  That  is  all  I  want  to  know!" 
Rowland  held  out  his  hand  and,  taking  that  of 
Charles,  he  pressed  it  tightly.  He  was  about  to 
withdraw  in  his  stately  way  when  Charles  drew  him 
back. 

"Wait,"  he  faltered.  "As  I've  said,  these  charges 
are  wholly  unfounded,  but  under  the  circumstances 
it  is  my  duty  to  you  to  tell  you  what  your  daughter 
has  failed  to  mention,  and  that  is  that  there  are 
things  in  my  life  which  I  have  pledged  my  honor 
never  to  reveal — things  concerning  others  more  than 
myself — " 

"Then  don't  mention  them,"  Rowland  said,  firm 
ly.  "Do  your  duty  as  you  see  it  and  God  will  take 
care  of  you.  I  have  suspected  that  you  may  be 
keeping  back  something,  but  that  is  your  right. 

413 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

T\Tow  let's  go  in  to  supper.  But  wait  a  moment. 
I  want  to  speak  of  something  psychological.  Do 
you  know  that  a  man  of  my  age  can  be  turned  from 
almost  a  lifelong  purpose  in  an  instant?  You  have 
seen  me  working  on  that  ponderous  genealogy  of 
mine.  Well,  the  other  day  when  my  boys  were  in 
so  much  danger  my  daughter  and  I  were  alone  in 
my  room.  She  looked  very  sad,  and  all  at  once  it 
seemed  to  me  that  she  was  an  exact  reproduction 
of  her  mother  when  we  were  married.  You  know 
in  that  day  when  I  brought  my  young  wife  here  we 
had  everything  our  hearts  desired  in  the  way  of 
luxury,  comfort,  and  even  what  was  then  considered 
style.  Now  it  is  all  gone  and  we  are  poor.  This 
change,  I  reckon,  has  pained  me  more  than  it  has 
my  daughter,  and  I  have  clung  to  the  past  and  tried 
to  keep  it  alive.  One  of  the  ways  of  keeping  it 
alive  has  been  my  thinking  and  writing  about  the 
dignity  and  superiority  of  my  ancestors.  I  was 
getting  my  book  ready  to  hand  down  to  my  children 
and  their  children,  and  I  would  have  finished  it 
and  published  it  but  for  my  daughter.  On  the  day 
I  spoke  of  just  now,  I  happened  to  tell  her  that  I 
was  thinking  of  borrowing  some  money  to  pay  for 
the  printing,  when  I  saw  from  her  face  that  she 
wasn't  pleased.  I  asked  her  what  was  the  matter, 
and  she  came  and  sat  on  my  knee,  sir,  as  she  had 
done  as  a  little  child,  and  as — as  her  mother  had 
done  as  a  bride.  She  put  her  arm  around  my  neck 
and  kissed  me,  and  then  she  begged  my  forgiveness 
for  saying  what  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  say. 
She  pointed  out  that  she  and  her  brothers  belonged 
to  a  different  age  from  the  one  I'd  passed  through. 

414 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

As  she  saw  it,  life  was  too  grim  and  serious  for  one 
to  foster  pride  in  one's  ancestors  simply  because 
they,  being  men  and  women  of  gentility,  wealth, 
and  influence,  had  stood  higher  than  others.  Mary 
cried  as  she  begged  that  I  should  not  spend  any 
money  to  publish  a  book  which  she  herself  could 
not  take  pride  in.  She  said  that  sorrow,  trouble, 
and  adversity  had  made  her  see  that  the  common 
people  were  nearer  God  than  the  opposite  class,  and 
that  if  we  expected  God  to  help  us  out  of  the  great 
trouble  in  which  my  sons  were  plunged  we  must 
humble  ourselves.  Well,  sir,  I  was  changed — in  a 
flash  I  was  a  changed  man.  My  young  daughter 
had  taught  me  more  in  a  moment  than  I  had  learned 
in  a  long  lifetime.  I  laid  the  manuscript  away.  If 
it  has  any  historical  value  it  may  be  used  by  some 
one  else  in  the  future,  but  not  by  me.  It  is  full  of 
human  vanity. 

"I  felt  as  if  a  vast  load  had  been  somehow  lifted 
from  my  old  shoulders.  I  knew  she  was  right  and 
obeyed  her.  I  am  telling  you  this,  sir,  because  you 
have  a  right  to  know  the  kind  of  woman  whose 
heart  you  have  won.  She  is  a  treasure,  sir — a 
treasure — a  treasure!" 

Aunt  Zilla  was  ringing  the  supper-bell.  Its  tones 
swept  melodiously  over  the  dusk-draped  fields. 
The  old  man  had  taken  the  arm  of  his  companion 
as  he  might  that  of  an  honored  guest  in  the  past, 
and  led  him  into  the  house. 

"I  shall  never  question  your  integrity,  sir,"  he 
said.  "Something  has  told  me  all  along  that  you 
are  a  man  among  men.  My  daughter  has  felt  it 
intuitively,  and  so  have  I  and  my  sons.  Whatever 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

your  personal  trouble  is,  we'll  stick  to  you  through 
it  if  you  will  only  give  us  a  chance." 

Charles  found  himself  unable  properly  to  respond. 
The  family  were  at  the  table  in  the  shaded  lamp 
light.  The  meal  passed  in  quiet  dignity,  and  when 
it  was  over  the  men  went  out  to  the  front  veranda. 
Kenneth  and  Martin,  who  had  not  been  informed 
of  the  talk  with  the  deputies,  were  still  in  a  gay 
mood  and  began  singing  again.  Rowland  stood  on 
the  steps  for  a  moment,  and  then  walked  down  tow 
ard  the  gate.  Finding  himself  alone,  Charles  slipped 
up  to  his  room.  He  had  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
his  need  of  quiet  reflection.  He  sat  down,  lighted 
his  pipe,  but  in  his  inactive  hands  it  quickly  ex 
pired.  That  he  would  have  to  face  the  officers  of 
the  law  sooner  or  later  he  did  not  doubt.  The  bond 
in  his  favor  might  mean  a  few  days'  delay,  but  it 
also  meant  the  certainty  of  his  appearance  before 
the  authorities.  What  would  then  take  place  he 
could  not  imagine,  but  of  one  thing  he  was  sure — 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  who  flatly  refused  to 
give  account  of  himself  when  charged  with  an  offense 
against  the  law  wTould  find  himself  in  a  serious  posi 
tion  indeed.  Then  a  sudden  thought  hurtled  through 
his  brain  and  shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  leaving 
him  cold  with  sheer  despair.  Why  had  he  not 
thought  of  it  before?  The  account  of  his  arrest 
would  be  given  in  the  papers,  along  with  the  name 
he  had  never  changed.  It  would  be  copied  all  over 
the  country,  and  ±he  Charles  Browne  of  Boston, 
so  long  sought,  would  be  discovered  at  last.  Will 
iam  would  read  his  doom  in  the  head-lines  of  his 
paper  at  his  desk  or  the  breakfast-table.  Celeste 

416 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

would  know  the  truth,  for  William  would  tell  the 
truth  rather  than  see  his  brother  unjustly  punished. 
The  revolver — ah  yes!  the  revolver  in  the  drawer 
of  his  brother's  desk!  It  was  as  clear  to  his  sight 
now  as  when  he  had  last  seen  it.  William  would 
use  it,  without  doubt,  now,  and  there  would  be  no 
delay. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Brown?"  It  was  Mary's  voice 
addressed  to  her  brothers  below.  Charles  sprang  up 
and  stood  listening. 

"I  think  he  went  up-stairs,"  Martin  said.  "He 
may  be  tired.  He  has  worked  hard  to-day." 

"Tired!"  repeated  the  grim  listener,  with  a  sar 
donic  smile,  as  if  the  body  counted  when  the  soul  of  a 
man  was  being  hounded  to  such  a  sinister  doom. 
Mary  was  still  on  the  veranda.  What  good  could 
be  done  by  his  going  to  her?  How  could  he  act 
with  her  as  if  nothing  new  had  happened  when  the 
claws  of  this  unexpected  monster  were  clutching  his 
throat?  He  crept  with  the  tread  of  a  thief  out  into 
the  hall  and  looked  down  the  stairs.  He  could  see 
Mary  standing  in  the  doorway.  What  was  she  think 
ing?  How  would  she  view  the  thing  he  now  feared? 
He  went  back  into  his  room  and  strode  to  and  fro 
across  the  uncarpeted  floor,  his  arms  locked,  his 
jaws  clenched.  Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of 
hoofs  and  some  one  dismounted  at  the  gate  and 
strode  up  the  walk  to  the  steps.  Charles  went  to  a 
window.  A  restive  horse  was  pawing  at  the  gate. 
The  voice  of  one  of  the  deputies  came  up  from 
below : 

"I  happened  to  meet  the  sheriff  over  at  Dodd's, 
Colonel.  He  said  the  bond  would  be  all  right,  and 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

lie  has  ordered  us  away.  Your  man  will  have  to 
appear  in  a  few  days,  and  you  will  be  informed. 
He  said  to  tell  you  that  the  bond  would  be  drawed 
up  for  a  thousand  dollars  and  that  the  fellow  would 
not  be  arrested  yet  a  while.  He  said  for  me  to  say 
that  you  was  taking  a  big  risk,  as  he  has  fresh  reasons 
for  thinking  that  your  man  will  never  be  able  to 
show  a  clean  record.  He  thinks  if  he  had  been 
able  to  do  so  he  would  have  put  it  up  before  this, 
considering  all  that's  happened." 

Charles  started  to  the  stairs,  but  suddenly  checked 
himself.  What  was  there  to  say  or  do?  And  time 
to  think  and  try  to  plan  was  what  he  needed. 
He  went  back  to  his  room  and  sat  down.  He  was 
aflame  with  the  terrible  shame  of  the  thing.  He 
heard  Mary's  subdued  voice  in  conversation  with  her 
father  and  brothers,  and  the  hoof-beats  of  the  dep 
uty's  horse  as  he  rode  away  toward  the  village. 
How  could  he  face  his  friends  down  there  with 
sealed  lips  when  they  were  so  valiantly  and  faithfully 
defending  him  out  of  sheer  confidence  in  his  veiled 
integrity?  He  decided  that  he  would  not  join  them. 
He  sat  in  his  unlighted  room  till  he  heard  them 
saying  good  night  to  one  another,  and  then  he  went 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Through  the  long,  warm 
night  he  struggled  with  his  problem.  Once  he  half 
thought  he  had  solved  it.  He  might  now  manage 
to  escape.  It  would  be  leaving  Rowland  with  the 
bond  to  pay,  but  he  could  perhaps  get  to  William 
safely,  secure  the  money,  and  return  it.  But  could 
it  be  done?  No,  for  the  names  of  Charles  Brown 
of  Georgia  and  Charles  Browne  of  Boston  would  be 
linked  together  by  the  detectives,  published  every- 

418 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

where,  and  a  renewed  search  for  the  bank  defaulter 
would  meet  with  success.  No,  there  was  nothing 
to  do  now  but  to  wait — if  a  man  of  his  temperament 
could  wait  with  a  sword  like  that  hanging  over  him 
and  all  he  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

/^HARLES  and  the  boys  were  in  the  field  the 
^~*  next  morning.  The  sheer  desperate  movement 
of  his  limbs  while  at  hard  work  had  a  tendency  to 
throw  off  the  mental  pain  that  he  was  still  laboring 
under.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  when,  happening 
to  glance  toward  the  house,  he  saw  the  sheriff  drive 
up  in  a  two-seated  trap  and  sit  waiting  at  the  gate. 
Then,  to  Charles's  surprise,  both  Mary  and  her 
father  came  out,  got  into  the  trap,  and  were  driven 
away  toward  the  village.  Kenneth  had  noticed  it; 
he  came  across  the  cotton-rows  and  joined  him. 

"They've  gone  in  to  fix  up  that  bond,"  he  ex 
plained,  in  a  tone  of  evident  satisfaction.  "Father  is 
to  sign  it  to-day  in  the  office  of  the  clerk  of  the 
court." 

"But  your  sister?"  and  Charles  wiped  the  per 
spiration  from  his  brow  and  bewildered  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  think  she  went  along  as  a  witness  to  my 
father's  signature,  and  also  to  see  Tobe  Keith  and 
his  mother.  Brown,  she  doesn't  believe  you  were 
connected  with  those  circus  men;  neither  does 
father.  As  for  me  and  Martin,  you  know  what  we 
think." 

"Thank  you,"  Charles  muttered.  "It  is  kind  of 
you  all."  His  eyes  were  now  on  the  trap  and  its 

420 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

inmates  as  they  slowly  ascended  the  sloping  road 
half  a  mile  distant.     Mary  sat  with  her  father  on 
the  rear  seat.    Beyond  them  rose  the  rugged  moun 
tain,  green  as  to  foliage  and  brown  and  gray  as  to 
earth  and  stone.    Above  it  all  arched  the  blue  sky, 
with  here  and  there  a  creeping  wisp  of  snow-white 
cloud.      How   incongruous   it   was!     Here   he    was 
dodging  imprisonment  while  this  gentle  family  were 
espousing — blindly   espousing   his    tottering    cause. 
He  drew  a  picture  of  himself  running  along  the  road 
after  the  trap,  running  faster  than  the  horses,  over 
taking  them  and  panting  out  a  demand  that  the 
law  should  be  allowed  to  take  its  course.    But  it  was 
only  a  futile  figment  of  a  weary  brain.    He  had  up 
rooted  a  stalk  of  cotton,  and  he  replaced  it,  raking 
out  the  mellow  soil  with  his  bare  hands,  packing  it 
back  on  the  roots,  and  bracing  the  plant  between  two 
of  its  neighbors  by  interlocking  their  pliant  branches. 
"Mary!  Mary!  Mary!"     The  balmy  air,  blown 
from  the  direction  she  was  taking  in  his  behalf, 
seemed  to  sing  the  name  as  from  vibrant  strings 
stretched   from   heaven   to   earth — from   shores   of 
matter  to  boundaries  of  infinite  spirit.     Again  she 
was  in  his  arms  as  she  was  that  night  in  the  darkened 
old  parlor.     Her  pulsing  lips  were  on  his,  her  cling 
ing  arms  about  his  neck.    After  that  spiritual  mar 
riage,   could   heaven   or   hell   tear   her   from   him? 
Could  fate  rob  him  of  such  a  prize?     Perhaps,  for 
the  prize  could  not  be  had  at  such  a  price.     Mary, 
who  had  been  a  ready  sacrifice  herself,  could  not 
love  one  less  worthy,  and  she  would  have  to  know 
the  truth.    He  worked  on — as  a  dying  man  he  toiled 
on  through  the  long,  weary  day. 

421 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ON  reaching  the  town,  Rowland  and  the  sheriff 
stopped  at  the  court-house  and  Mary  went  to 
the  Keiths'.  To  her  great  delight,  she  saw  Tobe 
put  in  the  little  yard,  seated  under  an  apple-tree. 
He  got  up  at  once,  and  with  scarcely  any  limp  at 
all  came  to  meet  her. 

"Mother  is  not  here,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands. 
"It  is  kind  of  you  to  come,  Miss  Mary." 

"I  heard  you  were  recovering,"  Mary  returned, 
"and  I  was  very  glad.  You  know  what  it  meant  to 
me,  Tobe?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  that  helped  me  pull  through,  I 
think,  Miss  Mary.  Those  boys  are  too  young  and 
thoughtless  to  shoulder  a  load  like  that  would  have 
been.  We  were  all  to  blame." 

"I  hope  we  will  have  no  trouble  with  the  courts," 
Mary  said.  "What  do  you  think  about  that, 
Tobe?" 

He  waved  his  hands  lightly.  "Nothing  will  be 
done,"  he  answered.  "The  sheriff  and  three  or  four 
good  lawyers  told  me  so.  They  said  it  all  depended 
on  whether  I'd  press  the  charges,  and  I  don't  in 
tend  to,  Miss  Mary.  I've  had  my  lesson,  and  the 
boys  have,  top.  I've  cut  liquor  out  and  folks  say 
.  they  have,  too." 

422 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

She  nodded.  ' '  Yes,  they  have  changed  remarkably. 
They  are  more  serious,  and  they  work  every  day." 

Tobe  was  smiling  significantly.  For  a  moment  he 
was  silent;  then  he  said:  "Miss  Mary,  me  and 
mother  are  powerfully  bothered  about  a  certain 
thing.  We  want  to  know  who  furnished  the  money 
that  came  to  me  that  night.  As  soon  as  I  heard, 
down  in  Atlanta,  that  the  stranger  that  fetched  it 
was  a  friend  of  that  Mr.  Brown  on  your  place,  and 
that  Mr.  Brown  was  with  him  that  night  and  kept 
back  out  of  sight,  why,  we  was  sure  that  you  sent 
the  money,  but  we  heard  after  we  got  back  that  you 
said  you  didn't." 

"I  didn't,  Tobe,"  Mary  declared.  "I  tried  to 
raise  it,  but  failed  to  get  it  in  time.  In  fact,  I  was 
surprised  to  hear  that  you  had  received  it." 

"Then  you  can't  tell  us  anything  about  that?" 
Tobe's  face  fell. 

"I  think  I  can,  and  I  think  I  ought  to."  Mary's 
color  was  slightly  higher  now.  "Tobe,  you  see, 
since  Mr.  Brown  came  to  us  he  has  become  warmly 
attached  to  my  brothers,  and  he  was  greatly  dis 
turbed  over  the  danger  they  and  you  were  in.  I 
have  an  idea  that  the  stranger  you  saw  was  an  old 
friend  of  his  who  came  here  to  pay  him  some  money 
he  owed.  I  suppose  that  Mr.  Brown  did  not  want 
to  get  credit  for  what  he  did,  and  so  he  got  his  friend 
to  hand  you  the  money  that  night." 

"Now  I  understand  it  better,"  Tobe  smiled.  "He 
must  be  a  fine  man,  and  I  don't  believe  the  reports 
the  sheriff  and  his  gang  are  circulating  about  him. 
They  say  he  is  in  big  trouble  himself — in  fact,  that 
him  and  his  friend  belong  to  the  bunch  of  circus 
28  423 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

outlaws  that  are  wanted.  The  sheriff  had  the  cheek 
to  try  to  tie  me  up  with  it,  because  this  money  came 
as  it  did,  but  I  laughed  in  his  face.  I  told  him  he'd 
have  to  prove  it,  and  he  went  off  with  a  hangdog 
look  on  him." 

"Mr.  Brown  is  not  guilty,  but  he  is  in  trouble 
over  it,  Tobe,"  Mary  sighed,  as  she  turned  to  leave. 

Tobe,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  went  with  her  to  the 
gate  and  opened  it,  with  the  unstudied  grace  of  his 
class.  He  stood  bowing  as  she  walked  away  toward 
the  square.  She  was  to  meet  her  father  at  the  hotel, 
and  thither  she  went,  vaguely  depressed  by  the 
talk  she  had  had  concerning  Charles. 

She  had  reached  the  front  of  the  hotel  when  she 
saw  Sam  Lee  at  a  canvas-covered  wagon  belonging 
to  a  mountain  farmer.  The  clerk  was  buying  some 
produce  for  the  hotel  table  and,  seeing  her,  he  left 
the  farmer  and  came  to  her. 

"I  was  on  the  lookout  for  you,"  he  said,  doffing 
his  hat  and  bowing.  "I  heard  you  were  around  at 
Keith's.  There  is  some  lady  friend  of  yours  up  in 
the  parlor.  She  come  in  on  the  south-bound  about 
half  an  hour  ago.  She  is  powerful  stylish-looking, 
and  wanted  to  see  about  some  conveyance  out  to 
your  place,  when  I  told  her  that  you  and  your  pa 
were  in  town.  She  begged  me  to  look  you  up,  and 
I  told  her  I  would.  She  said  she  would  wait -in 
the  parlor.  She  looks  like  she  may  be  some  of  your 
Virginia  kin.  I  didn't  ask  her  name,  for  there  was 
no  reason  for  it." 

"I  can't  imagine  who  it  can  be,"  Mary  answered. 
"Well,  I'll  go  up.  If  you  see  my  father,  will  you 
send  him  up,  too,  please?" 

424 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

Mary  went  into  the  entrance-hall  and  up  the 
stairs  to  the  parlor  at  the  end  of  the  first  flight.  The 
door  was  open,  and  the  big  room,  being  somewhat 
shaded,  appeared  so  dark  after  her  walk  in  the 
glaring  sunlight  that  she  was  at  first  unable  to  see 
distinctly.  Presently,  however,  she  became  aware  of 
a  woman's  figure  rising  from  a  sofa  in  a  corner  and 
approaching  her. 

"May  I  ask  if  this  is  Miss  Rowland?"  a  sweet, 
tremulous  voice  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  am  Miss  Rowland,"  Mary  answered. 
"Are  you  the  lady  who  wanted  to  see  me?" 

"Yes.  I  asked  the  clerk  about  you,  and  he  said 
he  would  send  you  up  here.  Miss  Rowland,  I  am 
a  stranger,  but  it  is  imperative  that  I  see  you.  There 
is,  I  believe,  a  gentleman  working  on  your  place 
whose  name  is  Charles  Browne." 

Mary  started,  stared,  and  was  silent.  Her  mind 
fairly  whirled  in  confusion.  Charles  had  hinted  at 
troubles  he  had  left  behind  him.  How  could  she 
know  that  it  would  be  wise  for  her  to  speak  in  any 
way  of  him  and  his  affairs  to  a  total  stranger?  She 
remained  silent.  She  had  drawn  herself  up  to  her 
full  height ;  her  head  and  neck  were  rigid,  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  before  her. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  the  stranger  went  on.  "You  don't 
know  me  yet,  and  you  are  such  a  faithful  friend  to 
him  that  you  don't  want  to  risk  the  slightest  mis 
step.  Well,  you  are  right,  and  I  am  wrong.  I  was 
in  too  great  a  hurry.  I  see  now  what  I've  got  to 
do,  Miss  Rowland.  I've  got  to  convince  you  that 
I  am  his  friend,  and  a  faithful  one,  too." 

Mary's  perplexed  face  was  still  rigid  and  was 
425 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

growing  even  pale.  Her  eyes,  more  accustomed  to 
the  darkened  room,  were  enabled  now  to  get  a 
clearer  view  of  the  visitor.  She  felt  strangely  drawn 
by  the  rather  sad  and  pinched  features,  the  yearning 
eyes,  and  the  sweet,  almost  pathetic  voice. 

"Miss  Rowland,  I  am  Charlie's  sister-in-law, 
Mrs.  William  Browne.  I've  come  here  from  Boston 
to  tell  you  and  your  father  something  that  you  ought 
to  know,  for,  Miss  Rowland,  I  know  that  Charlie 
loves  you.  It  came  to  me  through  another,  but  when 
I  saw  you  come  in  at  that  door  I  knew  it  to  be  the 
truth  beyond  doubt.  You  are  beautiful,  beautiful, 
and  are  so  true  to  him  that  you  stand  there  now, 
afraid  that  through  me  you  may  harm  his  interests." 

"He  has  spoken  to  me  of  you,"  Mary  said,  "and 
of  Ruth."  Her  hands  went  out  impulsively  and 
clasped  those  of  Celeste.  "You  must  pardon  me, 
Mrs.  Browne,  if — if  I  seem  slow  to — •" 

"I  understand  thoroughly,"  Celeste  broke  in. 
"I've  come  to  bring  you  good,  not  bad  news.  My 
dear,  Charlie  is  the  noblest  man  in  all  the  world — 
yes,  in  all  the  world.  Over  a  year  ago  his  brother, 
my  husband,  committed  a  great  offense  against  the 
law.  On  the  verge  of  detection  he  was  about  to 
kill  himself  and  leave  me  and  Ruth  under  the  stigma 
of  it  all.  Charles  sacrificed  himself  under  a  sacred 
agreement  with  my  husband.  He  left  Boston,  pur 
sued  for  a  crime  he  had  not  committed,  and  dis 
graced  for  life.  But  the  other  day  Michael,  an  old 
servant  of  ours,  came  back  and  told  me  about  you 
and  Charles — that  Charles  adored  you,  but  was  too 
honorable  to  think  of  marriage  with  you  under  the 
circumstances.  Michael  said  Charlie  was  very  un- 

426 


THE    HILLS   OF    REFUGE 

happy.  It  made  me  so,  for  I  wanted  him  and  yotf 
to  get  your  rights.  I  finally  told  my  husband  how 
I  felt,  and  demanded  that  he  do  his  duty.  It  drove 
him  out  of  his  mind  temporarily.  He  is  now  in  a 
sanatorium  on  the  way  to  recovery.  He  has  con 
fessed  everything  to  his  uncle,  whose  influence  at 
the  bank  has  caused  the  dismissal  of  the  charges, 
the  financial  loss  having  been  made  good.  Moreover, 
explanations  have  been  published  in  the  Boston 
papers  which  clear  Charlie's  name  in  full." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  I'm  so  glad!"  Mary  now  fairly 
glowed.  "You've  come  just  in  time  to  save  him 
from  grave  trouble."  And  Mary  went  on  to  explain 
the  situation.  The  two  sat  side  by  side  on  the  sofa, 
holding  each  other's  hands.  Rowland  found  them 
there  half  an  hour  later,  and  heard  the  news.  He 
made  a  most  favorable  impression  on  the  Boston 
lady  as  he  stood  gravely  listening  to  all  she  had  to 
say,  in  the  polished  manner  of  the  old  regime.  Then 
he  told  them  both  that  he  must  see  the  sheriff  at 
once  and  have  the  action  against  Charles  suppressed. 

In  half  an  hour  Rowland  came  back.  Everything 
had  been  settled  and  the  bond  destroyed.  Then  he 
pressed  Celeste  to  return  home  with  him  and  his 
daughter,  and  Mary  joined  in  the  invitation.  Celeste 
accepted  with  delight,  for  she  was  eager  to  see 
Charles  as  soon  as  possible,  and  Rowland  went  to 
order  a  carriage  from  the  livery-stable.  There  was, 
however,  a  delay  in  securing  a  conveyance,  and  it 
was  near  sundown  before  they  had  started  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

/CHARLES  toiled  all  that  day  in  the  fields.  At 
^^  no  time  during  all  his  troubles  had  his  de 
pression  been  greater,  due  to  the  humiliating  fact 
of  Mary  and  her  father  being  at  work  in  his  behalf. 
And  what  good  would  come  of  it?  he  kept  asking 
himself.  His  appearance  at  court  was  inevitable 
sooner  or  later,  and  what  could  he  say  in  his  defense  r 
Nothing  and  still  remain  true  to  the  high  stand  he 
had  taken. 

He  saw  the  sun  sink  below  the  mountain-top,  and 
felt  the  coolness  of  the  dusk  as  it  came  with  its 
moist  suggestion  of  falling  dew.  He  saw  Kenneth 
and  Martin  as  they  left  their  work  some  distance 
away  and  went  singing  toward  the  house.  He  won 
dered  if  Mary  and  her  father  had  returned.  The 
thought  of  having  to  face  them  in  the  lamplight 
at  the  supper-table  was  galling  to  his  tortured  spirit. 
He  had  known  them  such  a  short  time,  and  yet  was 
now  on  their  bounty  to  an  unpardonable  extent. 
He  bit  his  lips;  he  groaned;  he  cursed  his  fate. 
Finally,  when  it  was  too  dark  to  work  any  longer, 
he  started  to  the  house.  He  was  approaching  the 
barn  when  he  saw  some  one  coming  toward  him. 
It  was  Mary,  and  a  fresh  sense  of  his  humiliation 
swept  over  him  like  a  torrent.  What  would  she  have 

428 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

to  say  ?  Perhaps  the  bond,  after  all,  had  been  deemed 
insufficient.  Perhaps — perhaps —  But  she  was  now 
before  him.  He  dared  not  look  straight  at  her,  and 
was  grateful  for  the  thickening  dusk  that  veiled  him 
from  her  view. 

"We  are  late  getting  back,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
which,  somehow,  suggested  a  tremulous  suppression 
of  vast  and  sweeping  emotion. 

"I  see,"  he  returned.  "I  thought  you'd  be  back 
earlier.  I'm  sorry  I  allowed  your  father  to  do  that. 
I  had  no  idea  you  were  going  with  him.  I  ought  to 
have  stopped  you  both.  Such  a  thing  has  never 
been  heard  of!  Why,  I  am  nothing  but  the  tramp 
that  I  was  when  I  came  here!  I've  not  been  open 
with  you,  and  a  man  who  is  like  that  among  strangers 
doesn't  deserve — " 

"Hush,  Charlie!"  Mary  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm  and  smiled  into  his  face.  "We  would  do  a  little 
thing  like  that  a  million  times  and  be  glad  of  the 
chance.  In  fact,  we  have  not  done  enough  for  you. 
It  is  we  who  ought  to  be  grateful,  not  you.  Charlie, 
we  know  all  about  you  now — all  about  your  Boston 
life — •"  She  broke  down  and  sobbed.  She  sobbed 
in  sheer  joy,  but  he  misunderstood. 

"You  know,  then!"  he  gasped.  "You've  found 
out.  They  have  traced  me  down.  It  was  the  name. 
If  I  had  changed  that  I  might  have  had  a  chance. 
It  got  into  the  papers,  I  see,  and  the  news  of  my 
capture  spread  to  the  North.  Well,  well,  you  see 
now  who  you  have  been  sheltering." 

It  was  Mary's  turn  to  misunderstand.  Wiping  the 
glad  tears  from  her  eyes,  she  faced  him.  She  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm  again. 

42  Q 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

"There  is  a  great  surprise  waiting  for  you  at  the 
house,"  she  said.  "Who  do  you  think  is  there  to 
see  you?  Who,  Charlie,  who?" 

He  stared  dumbly,  his  mouth  falling  open  in  limp 
despair. 

"I  promised  that  I  wouldn't  tell  you,"  Mary  went 
on,  "so  that  you  would  be  surprised  suddenly,  but 
you  look  so — so —  You  don't  seem  to  understand 
that  all  your  trouble  and  mine  is  over.  Charlie,  it 
is  Celeste." 

' '  Celeste !"  he  gasped.    ' '  Celeste !' ' 

"Yes,  and  she  has  told  us  everything.  Your 
brother  has  been  ill  and  has  confessed  the  truth. 
The  blame  rests  where  it  should  at  last,  and  you 
are  free.  Oh,  Charlie,  you  are  the  noblest,  best  man 
in  all  the  world,  and  when  I  think  of  what  you  have 
borne  and  your  reason  for  it  I  feel  like  falling  at 
your  feet  in  worship.  Oh,  tell  me — tell  me — can 
you  really  love  me?  Since  I've  heard  your  story 
I've  been  afraid  that  you — that  such  a  man  as  you 
— could  not  really  care  for  a  simple  country  girl 
like  I  am.  It  worried  me  all  the  way  home.  While 
Celeste  was  talking  it  fairly  grappled  my  heart  and 
crushed  it.  When  you  and  I  were  both  in  trouble 
it  somehow  seemed  possible,  but  now — "  Her  voice 
broke.  Quickly  Charles  stepped  forward  and  took 
her  into  his  arms.  He  was  quivering  in  every  limb 
and  muscle.  Every  nerve  in  his  being  was  strung 
taut  to  the  music  of  ecstasy  inexpressible. 

The  clanging  of  Aunt  Zilla's  supper-bell  awoke 
them  both  to  the  world  about  them,  and  arm  in 
arm  they  went  homeward.  Celeste  was  in  the  parlor, 
waiting  for  him,  and  he  went  in  to  her  alone.  How 

43<> 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

sad,  how  changed  she  looked  in  the  lamplight,  how 
like  some  consecrated  nun  contrasted  to  her  former 
girlish  self!  As  he  kissed  her  and  held  her  thin 
hands  in  his  calloused  grasp  he  wondered  at  the 
lines  and  shadows  in  the  features  which  had  once 
been  so  smooth  and  free  from  care.  For  the  first 
time  that  day  she  allowed  her  emotions  to  get  the 
better  of  her.  She  tried  to  speak  and  failed.  Sud 
denly  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  homeless,  deserted 
human  waif,  and  then  he  comprehended  all.  The 
man  recuperating  in  the  hospital,  though  mentally 
sound,  could  never  be  the  ideal  she  had  so  long  striven 
to  make  of  him.  For  the  second  time  William  had 
tried  to  desert  her  and  his  child.  He  was  weak; 
he  was  a  coward;  but  he  was  the  father  of  her  child, 
and  perhaps  ideals  were,  after  all,  not  to  be  met  in  sub 
stance.  And  yet  there  were  strong  men  in  the  world, 
for  the  man  standing  before  her  in  the  soiled  garb 
of  a  voluntary  outcast  possessed  the  missing  require 
ments.  Celeste  was  happy  for  him  and  unhappy 
for  herself.  She  calmed  herself  and  hurriedly  told 
him  the  chief  things  that  had  taken  place  in  Boston. 
"Uncle  feels  very  sorry  for  his  unjust  thoughts 
about  you,"  she  said.  "All  his  family  pride  has 
centered  around  you.  He  is  sorry  for  William,  and 
is  not  unkind  to  him,  but  you  are  all  he  talks  about 
now.  He  is  coming  down  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I 
get  back.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  a  right  to  men 
tion  it,  but  I  shall,  anyway.  He  has  made  a  will, 
Charlie,  dividing  all  his  fortune  between  you  and 
Ruth.  You  are  rich  now,  and  are  bound  to  be  happy. 
Mary  is  a  gem  of  a  woman  who  has  proved  her  worth 
and  fidelity." 


THE    HILLS    OF    REFUGE 

She  seemed  slightly  faint.  She  swayed  to  and  fro, 
and  he  caught  her  arm  and  steadied  her.  He  had 
never  loved  her  so  much  as  now.  How  lonely  and 
bereft  she  seemed,  how  frail,  how  persistently  self 
less  ! 

"You  don't  look  strong,"  he  said,  sympathetically. 
"You  must  stay  with  us  for  a  while,  and  let  us  put 
the  color  back  into  your  cheeks.  The  mountain 
air  here  is  good  and  bracing." 

He  felt  the  brave  tremor  which  a  crushed  sob 
gave  to  her  frame.  "Thank  you,  Charlie,"  she  said, 
"but  I  must  hurry  back.  I  am  hungry  for  Ruth.  I 
have  never  left  her  so  long  before.  She  is  my  very 
life  now,  Charlie,  and — and  William  needs  me." 


THE   END 


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Prairie  Wife,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Price  of  Love,  The.    By  Arnold  Bennett. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Shiners.    By  A.  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Princes  Passes,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 

Promise,  The.    By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Purple  Parasol,  The.    By  Geo.  B.  McCutcheon. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverine,  The.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Ranching  for  Sylvia.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Real  Man,  The.    By  Francis  Lynde. 
Reason  Why,  The.   By  Elinor  Glyn. 


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Red  Cross  Girl,  The.    By  Richard  Harding  Davis. 

Red  Mist,  The.     By  Randall  Farrish. 

Redemption  of  Kenneth  Gait,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Red  Lane,  The.    By  Holman  Day. 

Red  Mouse.  The.    By  Wm.  Hamilton  Osborne. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aun'-  Mary,  The.    By  Anne  Warner. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.    By  J.  C.  Lincoln. 

Road  to  Providence,  The.    By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Robinetta.    By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 

Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Rogue  by  Compulsion,  A.    By  Victor  Bridges. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.   By  George  Barr  MrCutcheon. 

Rose  of  the  World.     By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Routledige  Rides  Alone.    By  Will  L.  Comfort 

St.  Elmo.    (111.  Ed.)    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 
Salamander,  The.    By  Owen  Johnson. 
Scientific  Sprague.    By  Francis  Lynde. 
Second  Violin,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Secret  of  the  Reef,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Secret  Historj'.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Self-Raised.    (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 
Septimus.     By  William  J.  Locke. 
Set  in  Silver.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Seven  Darlings,  The.     By  Gouverneur  Morris. 
Shea  of  the  Irish  Brigade.    By  Randall  Farrish. 
Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright 
Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum, 
Sign  at  Six,  The.     By  Stewart  Edw.  White. 
Silver  Horde,  The.     By   Rex   Beach. 
Simon  the  Jester.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Siren  of  the  Snows,  A.     By  Stanley  Shaw. 
Sir  Richard  Calmady.     By  Lucas  Malet. 
Sixty-First  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson* 
Slim  Princess,  The.    By  George  Ade. 


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Soldier  of  the  Legion,  A.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Somewhere  in  France.    By  Richard  Harding  Davis. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 

Splendid  Chance,  The.     By  Mary  Hastings  Bradley. 

Spoilers,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Spragge's  Canyon.  By  Horace  Annesley  Vachell. 

Still  Jim.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Story  of  Foss  River  Ranch,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Story  of  Marco,  The.    By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Strange  Disappearance,  A.    By  Anna  Katherine  Green. 

Strawberry  Acres.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Streets  of  Ascalon,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Sunshine  Jane.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Susan    Clegg    and    Her    Friend    Mrs.    Lathrop.     By    Anne 

Warner. 
Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Taming  of  Zenas  Henry,  The.     By  Sara  Ware  Bassett. 

Tarzan  of  the  Apes.     By  Edgar  R.  Burroughs. 

Taste  of  Apples,  The.     By  Jennette  Lee. 

Tempting  of  Tavernake,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.     By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Thankful  Inheritance.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

That  Affair  Next  Door.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Their  Yesterdays.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

The  Side  of  the  Angels.     By  Basil  King. 

Throwback,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Thurston  of  Orchard  Valley.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

To  M.  L.  G.;  or,  He  Who  Passed.    By  Anon. 

Trail  of  the  Axe,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cul'ium. 

Trail  of  Yesterday,  The.     By  Chas.  A.  Seltzer. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Truth  Dexter.     By  Sidney  McCall. 

T.  Tembarom.     By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 

Turbulent  Duchess,  The.    By  Percy  J.  Brebner. 


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Twenty-fourth  of  June,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Twins  of  Suffering  Creek,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Two-Gun  Man,  The.     By  Charles  A.  Seltzer. 

Uncle  William.      By  Jeannette  Lee. 

Under  the  Country  Sky.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Unknown  Mr.  Kent,  The.     By  Roy  Norton. 

"Unto  Caesar."    By  Baronett  Orczy. 

Up  From  Slavery.     By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Valiants  of  Virginia,  The.    By  Hallie  Erminie  Rives. 

Valley  of  Fear,  The.    By  Sir  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Vane   of  the  Timberlands.      By   Harold   Bindloss. 

Vanished  Messenger,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Village  of  Vagabonds,  A.    By  F.  Berkley  Smith. 

Visioning,  The.     By  Susan  Glaspell. 

Wall  of  Men,  A.     By  Margaret  H.  McCarter. 

Wallingford  in  His   Prime.     By  George   Randolph   Chester 

Wanted — A  Chaperon.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 

Wanted — A   Matchmaker.      By   Paul   Leicester   Ford. 

Watchers  of  the  Plains,  The.     By  Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Way   Home,   The.      By    Basil    King. 

Way  of  an  Eagle,  The.     By  E.   M.  Dell. 

Way  of  a  Man,  The.     By  Emerson   Hough. 

Way  of  the   Strong,  The.      By   Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Way  of  These  Women,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Weavers,    The.       By    Gilbert    Parker. 

West   Wind,   The.      By    Cyrus   T.    Brady. 

When   Wilderness   Was    King.       By    Randolph    Parrish. 

Where   the   Trail   Divides.      By   Will    Lillibridge. 

Where   There's   a  Will.      By    Mary   R.   Rinehart. 

White  Sister,  The.     By  Marion  Crawford. 

White  Waterfall,  The.     By  James  Francis  Dwyer. 

Who    Goes    There?       By    Robert    W.    Chambers. 

Window  at  the  White  Cat,  The.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 

Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Winning  the  Wilderness.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

WitL  Juliet  in  England.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond.  , 

Witness  for  the  Defense,  The.     By  A.  E.  W.  Mason. 


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Woman  in  Question,  The.      By  John   Reed   Scott. 
Woman  Haters,  The.      B"  Joseph   C.  Lincoln. 
Woman  Thou  Gavest  Me,  The.     By  Hall  Caine. 
Woodcarver  of  'Lympus,  The.     By  Mary  E.  Waller. 
Woodfire  in  No.  3,  The.     By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 
Wooing  of  Rosamond  Fayre,  The.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

JTou  Never  Know  Your  Luck.     By  Gilbert  Parker 
Younger  Set,  The.     By  Robert  W.    Chambers. 


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